The Poem
by Mariposa en Arrullo
Summary: High School!AU.  John is horrified when his project partner turns out to be the insane Sherlock Holmes.  SLASH- warning for some language and teen smut!  M to be safe
1. Chapter 1

The class was called Interpersonal Relationships, and it was an actual course of study at John's new high school.

Not new, he reminded himself. He had attended Clifton Ealing High School for close to four full months now, and yet he still couldn't figure out why he needed to fill up his schedule with a class that centered on "interacting positively with others, making friends, and dealing with anger in a healthy way."

And even worse, the room was filled with people whom John would automatically label 'red-alert' and avoid. There were a number of different groups in the class, each with its own general reason for being dumped in the course.

There were the knuckleheads; giant apish blokes who inevitably played rugby, football, or sometimes even tennis. They were there because they had gotten into some masculine fight about their girlfriends, or more often, about their precious ability to throw, kick, or whack a ball better than another stupid oaf. Needless to say, they spent most of their time making stupid homophobic comments and guffawing loudly.

Then there were the smokers, who hung out in the back corner with the potheads, fingers twitching with some imaginary joint, eyelids always threatening to droop closed.

Then the loners, a small faction of which John counted himself a part. He was only in the class because he was a transfer student, and he thought he could manage well enough on his own, thank you very much. He didn't plan on making any friends, anyway - he was only there for one and a half more years, then he would be gone in an instant, hopefully off to one of the premier military academies that he wanted to be accepted to, one with a good medical program as well. Playing doctor was only a hobby, though, a funny little interest that John couldn't quite bear to give up just yet. Anyways, there was such a thing as army doctors - how else were the wounded soldiers going to get patched up and back on the front lines?

He wasn't a violent bloke, though, no matter how much he liked the feel of a gun in his hand. He wasn't a sadist, either, or a little boy who thought war was a glorified game. He just liked helping, though he had to admit he loved the thrill in his blood when firing out a round, when running flat out for dear life - even if it was just because he had stolen Harry's phone or something like that.

But he had to wait- so here he was, a small fish in a dangerous, roiling sea. Luckily, there were a few other kids who seemed as out of place as him. He assumed they had previously been goody-two-shoes golden boys who'd gotten caught with steroids or popping prescription drugs.

There was one boy, however, that John was mystified by. He didn't fit any of the other categories - he was a category in himself, snide and rude, with a cold, leering look. He was slim and tall, in John's year or the one above him, he guessed, with a strangely exotic face. John passed the boring forty-seven minutes every other day staring at the back of his curly dark head, bent over something in his lap, and wondering what his life was like.

The teacher called him Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes (a right strange name according to John), but the other kids called him 'fag' or 'freak.' He seemed both universally known and notoriously hated, and the whispers (not that John listened) said he was a crazy genius with a penchant for looking straight at you and knowing everything about your life with a cruel and consistent accuracy.

That and he liked blowing things up, apparently, which was purportedly his reason for ending up in a class of 'lower human spawn.' John was at the same time affronted and hopelessly intrigued, though he took special care to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, and he made certain that they never had the chance to exchange words. It wasn't that he was afraid of being seen with the bloke - he just didn't like being humiliated, and he had seen enough people reduced to tears by Sherlock's cutting words to know the same fate would befall him. John wasn't a secret pervert or a psychopath, but no one likes to have their life story announced to the world, even worse to a class full of judgmental teenage delinquents.

He also had a terrible fear that the other boy had noticed him staring, even though he made sure to be subtle, and the fact that Holmes sat at the front of the classroom right in the middle of John's line of sight wasn't exactly a hindrance. Still, he cringed to imagine Holmes spout out that John was bloody well obsessed with him in front of everyone, and he resolved to be more careful with his observing.

The room was slowly filling up, and a swell of giggles and swears rose around him as Sherlock strode in, indifferent as always to the extra wave of sniggering that greeted his arrival. He ignored all of them, taking his customary seat with graceful arrogance. With a quick glance, John saw him take something out of his breast pocket and peer down at it. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a seat more beside the other boy - not next to him, God no, but to the right or the left of the other boy so he could glance over under the guise of checking the clock and see his profile, and maybe find out what was clutched in his hands.

The first bell rang, loud and jarring, and Mr. Lestrade hurried in, carrying a haphazard pile of papers. John felt bad for the teacher - he was a decent man, and he had to waste his time teaching this hopeless class. He did get paid, though, John thought, which was more than he himself got out of it.

The teacher set the papers down on the desk at the front, running a hapless hand through his silver hair.

"Good morning, everyone," he said wearily, glancing around at the rows of students. "Everyone here?"

There was a scornful silence. John wondered what the reaction would be if one day he jumped up eagerly, and shouted "Sir yes sir!" He imagined Holmes turning around, slow and disdainful, and fixing John with a contemptuous stare.

Lestrade was unfazed by the barely concealed hostility. He smiled tiredly. "Don't all jump in at once."

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. John glanced at Sherlock's head. It was still bent down, seemingly ignorant of Lestrade's presence. John silently willed the teacher to notice the other boy - maybe then he would confiscate the mysterious object Holmes was so fascinated by.

Shockingly enough, it worked.

"Sherlock," Mr. Lestrade began, frowning down at the boy. He went unnoticed.

"Oi, faggot!" one of the jocks shouted from the back, then dissolved into laughter with his friends. Holmes kept his head down.

Lestrade frowned harder. "That's enough, Mr. Brenton," he said sharply, before addressing Holmes once more. "Sherlock!"

Finally, the boy deigned to raise his head. John couldn't see his face, but he could imagine it - carefully respectful, but with an underlying arrogant sneer that said he considered himself so far above the teacher he was surprised he could even form coherent sentences.

"My apologies, sir," the boy said smoothly, and beneath his baritone John could hear an undertone of contempt. "I didn't realize class had started."

Lestrade sighed. "Give it here," he ordered reluctantly.

"Pardon?"

The teacher sounded weary. "Give me the mobile phone, Sherlock," he repeated, holding out his hand and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Sherlock was motionless for a second, then stood, long legs stretching. John watched, captivated.

He sauntered forward, placing a black phone in the teacher's hand with a just a little more force than strictly necessary - the only sign that he was even a little rattled by the ordeal. John studiously did not stare as he sat back down, sprawling arrogantly on his chair.

Lestrade smiled humorlessly. "Thank you," he said sardonically, placing it on the desk next to his papers.

"Now, as you lot probably are unaware, even though I mentioned it at least ten times - our end of semester final project is coming up."

The teacher sorted through the sheets on the table, brow furrowed. He finally found the one he was looking for, and held the paper in front of his face, squinting.

"It's different, this year, so don't think you can steal from your buddies that graduated." He looked up. "You're going to be writing poems."

There were groans from his audience. John sighed internally, but leaned forward, listening carefully for Lestrade's next words. This class didn't have its name for nothing - all of their assignments and projects had to have an 'interpersonal' feature, meaning they all involved interaction with another person.

John wasn't too worried about that part, because luckily today someone had sat down next to him, one of those nervous blokes who was so scared of the other kids he could barely speak. John disliked him, but he was convenient, because if he had been sitting alone Lestrade might have had to pair him up with another loner, Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade continued. "For the next two weeks, you'll be working with one other person. You'll spend the class together and use all the friendship strategies we learned to get to know their real personality, and let go all your prejudices like I taught you." He cleared his throat. "Tonight, you'll write a sort of pre-poem- all your thoughts and observations about the person before learning about their interests and beliefs. Then, after the two weeks, you'll write a post-poem.

"I'm passing out a rubric. This is twenty percent of your grade, and I'll be using this to evaluate your poems, so hold on to it, and don't pretend I didn't tell you."

The rubric said they were being graded not based on the quality of their writing, but on the quality of their observations and 'voice.' John stared down at the paper with anxiety. He had absolutely nothing to say about the boy next to him - he didn't even know his name. David? Ben? He sighed again, casting a surreptitious glance at Sherlock, who hadn't even bothered to look at the paper and was gazing at the wall.

He wondered who the strange boy's partner would be, and felt even more glad that David-Ben had decided to plop down at his table today.

Lestrade finished passing out the papers and stood at the front of the room again. "Alright, read this over, because it tells you exactly what I want." He took off his glasses. "Oh - one more thing," he said slowly, waiting until all eyes settled back on him. "I'll be the one choosing your partners."

There was a shocked silence, then cries of protest filled the room. John just stared in horror, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his hands turned white as the sheet in front of him.

"That's bollocks!"

"Yeah, you can't do that!"

Lestrade held up his hand wearily. When that didn't work, he shouted, "Quiet!"

Slowly, the voices petered out. Lestrade wore his serious face, eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Some of you - some of you -" he persevered over another muttered challenge - "believe that horsing around with your friend is going to get you an A. But that's just not true." He paused for emphasis. "I'll be drawing names out of a hat, so you can't blame me, just your own poor luck - and unless you want a zero, there won't be one complaint about the business."

He rummaged around in a drawer. John was frozen, suddenly feeling like he was watching the scene unfold from somewhere on the ceiling, watching himself bite his lip, watching Sherlock stare unblinkingly at the hat Lestrade pulled out and placed on the desk.

The teacher glared at them one last time. "And I don't want to hear any insults, not one word when you get your partner. You will be kind and friendly - or else you will fail." He coughed, and pulled a scrap of paper out of the hat.

"Nicholas Anderson." He rummaged around for a second. "And Sally Donovan."

The druggie and the bully glowered, but stayed silent. Lestrade waited for a moment, then continued.

"Angelo D'Accia- you're with Soo Lin Yao." The other transfer, a pretty Chinese girl, glanced fearfully at the heavyset Italian dealer, who leered back. John felt sorry for the girl.

The list went on, and John's stomach was a mass of squirrelly knots. It seemed harder and harder to swallow as he listened for his name or Sherlock's, heart pounding ominously as both remained unspoken.

Finally, it seemed like almost everyone had gotten a partner. John looked around feverishly, trying to spot someone - anyone - whose name hadn't been called. He was thinking so hard he almost missed Lestrade's bored 'John Watson.'

He gulped.

Lestrade cleared his throat, and John prayed to the god of school, the god of badly paid teachers, the god of undoubtedly rigged hat lotteries - but that didn't stop the words he knew were going to casually come out of the teacher's mouth.

"- and Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade threw the slip away carefully. "Class dismissed."

**:::**

Sherlock Holmes was late. It didn't bother him, of course, but he already had received two tardies, and a third would get him on probation. This utterly ridiculous and pointless class was the only thing between him and a military academy for 'troubled boys', and Mummy's threats were never idle.

It wouldn't have been so dreadful if it had been a chemistry class he was forced into, but no, the poor Holmes boy who was so obviously suffering from a social disease just had to be placed in some heartwarming friendship-based class that was without a doubt wholly absurd and preposterous.

And to top it all off, he was being forced to complete actual work. No, not even that - to actively attempt to befriend another person.

It was ludicrous.

John Watson. Junior, transfer from private school - St. Vincent's, he concluded - who used to play rugby but sustained a serious injury a short while ago, judging by the fact that he isn't currently on the team (he would have had a lot more friends if he were). Close cropped sandy hair - likes it out of his eyes - and an aesthetically pleasing face. Nothing out of the ordinary, but attractive. Fit, too, Sherlock noted distantly. How did he get exercise without bothering the injury?

Wounded shoulder, he decided. Sneakers worn down, but a new model so the wear wouldn't be from long use over time. A runner.

Sherlock rarely spent time in the lunchroom, but on occasion he did sneak in for a moment just to gain data on who was friends with who, and who wasn't. He could never do it for long, simply sit and stare uninhibited as he would have preferred. He didn't eat lunch. He found a bench outside and read a book, most days.

An yet he never saw Watson, cafeteria or otherwise. Where did he go? Sherlock knew every crack and cranny in the godforsaken building they called a school, and he had never once seen the other boy.

It was a mystery, he acknowledged with some annoyance. Watson was like a tanned ghost. He was quiet in class, no friends, didn't make any effort to ingratiate himself with the other idiots in the class. Why? He could easily have been accepted with a few snide comments, a bit of pointed posturing towards Lestrade. Tripping Sherlock himself seemed to be the style nowadays, and if Watson had even just joined in the laughter whenever Sherlock spoke the boy would have a several imbeciles to choose from as friends.

But he was silent; perfectly invisible in all respects. It would have been intriguing to Sherlock if he hadn't had far too much experience with teenage boys. He had found they could all be placed in two categories: idiots who hated him outright, and idiots who resented him behind a mask because they were too afraid of him.

The latter were minutely more interesting, if only because he enjoyed baiting them. He'd take one look at them and tell them their secrets, their lives, everything. He liked the way their faces first scrunched up, confused, and then went red with helpless anger. Sherlock just smiled at them.

The first bell rang, and he was only a steps away. He threw open the door loudly, ignoring the eyes that followed his every move. Lestrade paused in his lecture, and Sherlock tightened his lips at the wry smile on his face.

"Thank you for joining us, Sherlock," the man said with long-suffering patience, and Sherlock threw himself down into his seat, frowning. Ridiculous, he thought venomously.

John Watson was looking straight ahead, mouth pressed together like he was on the edge. The edge of what? Sherlock wondered, and then stopped himself firmly. It didn't matter.

"Alright," Lestrade continued, amused. "I'm going to come around with a sheet with the discussion topic for today, 'Daily Routines.'" He passed the papers out, collecting their poems as he walked.

Sherlock took the sheet sullenly, passing up his poem. He glanced at Watson's with a prick of curiosity, able to see only two words, 'He can', because the other boy had folded it in half. Sherlock scowled. He must be embarrassed at his poor writing skills, he thought with a smirk. How many ways could there be to say "crazy queer"?

His own poem was one of his best works. Wordy and winding, it was close to ten pages long, written in iambic tetrameter. Sherlock had done his best to make it as confusing as possible, basing the whole piece around the use of a tailless mouse as a metaphor for Watson. The mouse was new to the zoo, except it was an alternate universe where mice were as large as humans and ran the world, while man was a tiny blip, relegated to menial tasks and dirty cages. Sherlock thought it made a mature, disturbing statement on the state of the world today. He doubted Lestrade would agree.

Watson was staring down at the paper he had received with something that looked close to fear. Sherlock smirked. He hadn't even started speaking and the other boy was afraid of him. It was almost too good to be true.

Lestrade, now carrying a haphazard stack of pages, cleared his throat.

"Okay, everyone," he began. "Start with the question prompts at the top, and work your way through all of them. I'll be grading these-" he waved the pile, "-at my desk. I'll hand them back tomorrow with a grade."

He sat down, and looked up at the silent faces in front of him. "Well, go on, I want to hear talking. If I look up and see blank faces, I will fail you." He grinned. "Get to work!"

Sherlock stubbornly kept his eyes on the page in front of him. If Watson wanted to speak, he could. Sherlock wasn't about to engage in pointless pleasantries with a boy who probably couldn't even recite the quadratic formula.

He heard Watson cough, and looked up against his will. The boy was slightly red-faced, one hand clenched on the edge of his chair (interesting - sign of nerves or anger?) and licked his lips once. Sherlock felt his eyes drawn to Watson's mouth and looked away quickly.

"Er, so. Hello."

His voice was pleasant, not as deep as Sherlock's. There was a slightly gravelly tone to it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Hello," he drawled, fixing his eyes on the other boy, who swallowed but didn't back down. Sherlock stifled a scowl in irritation. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Watson looked down at the paper. "Well. What are your everyday habits?" he asked, reading off the page.

Sherlock grimaced. This was worse than he had thought.

"I wake up, take the car to the school, attend my classes, take the car to my house, complete my schoolwork, and retire to bed," he recited, making his voice bored. Of course, that wasn't even the half of what he did in his time, but Watson definitely didn't need to know that. He'd probably wet his pants if he found out, Sherlock thought with a sneer.

Watson was looking at him strangely, and Sherlock was annoyed that he couldn't seem to decipher the other boy's face. "What?" he snapped finally, irritation coloring his voice.

The shorter boy started a little. "You don't -" he paused. "You don't do anything? Else, I mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What were you expecting, that I torture animals in my free time? Maybe a spot of necrophilia?"

"No," the boy said defensively. "I mean, what do you do for fun?" He glared at Sherlock stubbornly.

Sherlock scowled. "I conduct experiments," he allowed haughtily, trying for a mysterious tone. This boy was a nuisance.

His admission didn't seem to have the desired effect. Watson brightened, looking interested. "What kind of experiments?" he asked curiously.

None that you'd understand, Sherlock thought. He did like talking about his work, however, and the one he was involved in now was particularly fascinating. It might even shut the boy up, too.

"At the moment I am researching the effect of certain compounds on human retinal fluid and areas of the pancreas - solubility among other things. Of course I do not have access to a human pancreas, as I would like, so I make do with a pig's." He looked at Watson, anticipating a horrified, shocked stare - but the other boy appeared as if he was actually hanging on Sherlock's every word. It should have been bothersome. Sherlock frowned.

"Christ," Watson breathed, and Sherlock looked at him sharply. "That's - really cool." Sherlock stared at him. The boy flushed, but continued on, undaunted. "What compounds are you using?"

Sherlock frowned again. "Aluminium oxide," he said stiffly.

Watson nodded. "So, what was the result?" he inquired, and Sherlock gave him a dirty look. He didn't need to fake interest for a good grade, Sherlock thought, vexed. He himself was quite fine keeping their conversation stilted and impersonal.

He cleared his throat. "The experiment is still in the preliminary stages, but in the first tests I have found that the substance is in fact soluble in the retinal fluid, and -"

Watson cut him off, smiling. "- insoluble in the pancreas," he finished. Sherlock stared at him again.

"How did you know that?" he demanded, unable to keep his tone as cold as he wished.

The boy grinned. "I like biology," he admitted shyly, ducking his head.

Sherlock sat back, processing this. Unexpected, he concluded. Perhaps not as unintelligent as first predicted.

"You want to be a doctor," he stated, suddenly wanting to gain back the upper hand. He wanted to see that fear on Watson's face again, wanted his face to spasm in shock, wanted to make him angry. He wanted to prove he was like the other oafs, because Sherlock knew he was - they all were, in the end. Anyway, Sherlock already knew everything about him. Granted, not the amateur biologist bit, but he had picked up on that soon enough.

Watson was surprised, but not half-terrified, not irate - not yet. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock smiled. "Why else would you study biology?" he asked, and then continued on without an answer.

"You've got a brother, two years younger. Must be in trouble of some sort because he and your mother aren't getting along. Perhaps he's struggling with his sexuality." He heard a sharp sound from Watson but ignored it, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond his head.

"You moved from St. Vincent's High School at the start of this year, and you played on their rugby team. Then you got injured. You moved here, a poorer neighborhood, so something must have happened economically. Perhaps a parent lost their job? Father is absent; judging from the letter you keep from him tucked in your binder. I saw his signature when you retrieved your poem."

Sherlock felt excitement rising in him, sharp and trembling. Watson was still silent beside him, but Sherlock didn't look at him, not yet, because he wasn't finished.

"So, military father. If he had left, there would be painful memories - you wouldn't put a sign of his in a place you would see every day. Mother must work, so she lost her job. Probably a teacher, they've been hit hardest by the recession.

"That brings me to you. You haven't tried out for the rugby team here, because they -" he gestured vaguely to the back corner where the rugby jocks sat, "- would have teased you at the start of the year for not making the cut. No one knows you. You're also a habitual jogger, judging by your sneakers. But why would you try so hard to keep in shape? You must really enjoy running. But maybe you're preparing for something - trying out next year? Likely not, as you would have tried harder to befriend the current team members. No, you're anticipating something else. Military father obviously dear to you, so being a soldier would have a positive connotation to you. Perhaps you also want to be a soldier, like your father. But you also admitted to wanting to become a doctor. So, perhaps your dream is to be an army doctor."

There was one last thing. "You also feel as if your education is pointless, as you have made no attempt to toady to the ruling masses here. If you had valued your enrollment you would have endeavored to 'fit in', as they say. Judging from that, you are currently suffering from a mild case of depression, possibly as a result of the constant worry about your father, but more likely originating from of your lack of social skills and your mother's strained relationship with your brother." He sat back in satisfaction, alert for a punch.

But Watson was simply staring at him, and Sherlock thought he detected something like relief in the boy's eyes. Sherlock looked at him in frustration. He didn't look angry - why wasn't he angry? Sherlock had just exposed his life story, and the infuriating boy was just sitting there, looked positively baffled.

"That was," the boy began haltingly, "amazing."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, feeling a faint blush creep up into his cheeks. He swallowed slowly. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was!" Watson looked incredulous. "It was bloody extraordinary!" He grinned, seeming startled, yes, but not angry. Almost happy, even.

Sherlock realized he was staring and turned his head sharply so it was facing ahead. "That's not what people normally say," he said.

Watson made a sound suspiciously like a small huff of laughter. "What do people normally say?" he ventured curiously, and Sherlock thought that this was definitely not proceeding how he had imagined it to.

"'Piss off,'" he replied emotionlessly, looking down at the paper in front of him without seeing the words.

Sherlock was certain he heard giggles this time. He looked over, shocked to see the other boy muffling his laughter with a fist.

"Sorry," Watson gasped, schooling his face into seriousness. "It's just - well, you're a bloody genius."

It was true, of course, but that didn't stop Sherlock from being astonished, and Sherlock Holmes was never astonished. He licked his lips slowly, feeling all of the sudden a bit lost. Unexpected, he thought again.

"Thank you," he replied, and if it was a bit stiff, it was worth the look of pleased surprise on Watson's face.

"No problem," the boy said cautiously. Sherlock let his gaze linger on him for a bit longer than strictly necessary, his mind strangely slow and foggy for some reason.

Whatever unusual 'brain freeze' he was experiencing, it took a few moments before he could gather his thoughts. "Did I get anything wrong?" he inquired, attempting a casual tone.

Watson fidgeted, biting his lip. "My dad's in Kandahar," he said. "Mum's an ESL teacher. She just got laid off in Chiswick."

"Completely correct, then," Sherlock said, resisting the urge to preen. He glanced at Watson, wondering if he would repeat his compliment.

"Not completely," the boy replied instead, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Harry's short for Harriet."

"Your sister."

"Yeah," Watson confirmed, grinning.

"Sister!" Sherlock hissed, and scowled. Watson laughed.

"Don't worry, mate. You got the rest all right," he reassured Sherlock, then glanced down at the assignment sheet and around the room. It seemed as if they were far behind the other pairs, who seemed to be wrapping up their discussions. "We better get going, even though... that was still incredible," he continued, almost shy now.

Sherlock looked down, slightly befuddled by events. He blinked, studying Watson's face for a bit longer than necessary once again, and looked down sharply. He had never blushed, and he wasn't about to start now.

He was silent for a while, organizing the data of the exchange into neat piles in his mind.

It didn't add up. Watson had complimented him, even after Sherlock had been unaccountably rude and inconsiderate. It made no sense.

But then - oh. He was pretending, for Lestrade. For a good mark. Playing nice with the friendless outcast. Obvious.

No one could be that kindhearted.

He saw Watson shift uncomfortably beside him.

"Erm, well. Shall we...?"

Sherlock nodded, scanning the second question on the sheet in front of him, and pondering the odd sour taste in his mouth. There were exactly six minutes left in the class, and then he would be free to go home, explode the table or one of Mycroft's old suits, and just stop thinking.

"What is the one item you would consider necessary to your daily life and why?" he recited detachedly, focusing his eyes firmly on the line of clear black text. That question would be Watson's to answer, and he was definitely not curious as to what the response would be. Not curious in the least.

The boy was quiet for a moment. "I guess it would be my journal," he said, a trifle defensively.

"And why?"

There was no response for several seconds. "I suppose it helps," Watson said quickly, words rushed together. "You know, with the... stuff."

Frowning, Sherlock stared down at the paper in front of him. He presumed Watson meant the depression.

"So... what role do your friends play in determining your schedule?" Watson hurried to change the subject, reading the next line aloud and propping his chin on his hand.

Sherlock flinched inwardly. Both he and Watson knew he didn't have any friends - because he didn't need them, he huffed angrily.

Thankfully, the bell sounded a few long seconds later, and Sherlock permitted himself a tiny sigh of relief. His notebook, crammed with various papers and notes, was laying precariously on the edge of the desk, and he reached for it just as a beefy boy knocked it deliberately with his hip.

He scowled fiercely. The ripped up pages he had hastily stuck into the book were all over the floor, and with a angry set of his lips Sherlock bent down and began to retrieve them.

And then he saw another pair of hands next to his.

Watson. Insufferable. Of course, the idiot couldn't let the golden boy act up until Lestrade was out of the room.

And furthermore, those were his private notes, Sherlock thought fiercely, snatching the scraps of paper out of the other boy's hands without a word. He was fuming. Those were his!

"I have no need of your help," he snarled in a low voice, grabbing at the slips littering the ground. What if Watson had seen something? Sherlock made observations of himself and the world every day, clinical and organized, and his body was no different than any other teenage boys. Regrettable, of course, but normal. He was sure his ears were scarlet, and that only made him more furious.

He saw Watson hesitate, and wished the boy would just disappear.

Lestrade seemed to read Sherlock's mind. "John," he called. "Can I see you for a moment?" The man was holding a marked up sheet of paper with a very clear crease down the middle - as if someone had folded it.

Watson's poem, Sherlock concluded, feeling a stab of curiosity against his will. Why would Lestrade want to talk about his poem? He kept his ears sharp and alert, trying to make out their conversation, but Lestrade's gruff baritone was inaudible and John seemed to be keeping silent.

Sherlock gathered up the rest of his things swiftly, wanting badly to leave before Watson and the teacher were done speaking, but he had no such luck. He was shoving his notebook in his bag when the boy came back to their shared table, the tips of his ears flaming.

Was it from embarrassment or anger? Sherlock wondered, glowering as he put his bag on his shoulder. He strode out without a word to Lestrade or Watson, and, sighing, heard the sound of frantic steps behind him. He increased his pace.

"No need to keep up the show," he called out contemptuously, mouth twisting as Watson came up beside him. "I give you a standing ovation. Bravo."

Sherlock's head felt light and airless. He decided he was due for another meal.

"What?" Watson asked, keeping up easily, and Sherlock frowned. Runners, he thought, chagrined.

He decided to end the conversation as quickly as possible, and stopped abruptly. "I said," he repeated slowly, as if speaking to a toddler, "Bravo." Wheeling around in the opposite direction, he continued, "You've no need to make nice with me. I assure you, it is wholly unnecessary."

Watson was still right beside Sherlock, staring at him like he was an alien. Sherlock looked back in irritation. "What?"

They were in the back courtyard by now, and Watson's mouth was hanging slightly open. His hair was really very golden in the fresh air, Sherlock mused, and why in the world was he noticing that?

_Delete._

Still gawking at Sherlock, Watson squinted up, confusion showing in every feature of his face. "What the…?" he began, looking genuinely baffled. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock refused to make eye contact. "I am referring to the fact that you want a good mark for that abominable class. Really, helping the charity case isn't very original, but I suppose you all never think of anything new." He glared down at Watson. "Except, you're still here. Which is a veritable enigma, as far as I am concerned, as Lestrade is no longer in sight. Did he assign you to follow me home? Maybe make sure I wash behind my ears and don't slit my wrists in the nighttime?"

Watson was gaping. "No," he replied indignantly. "No, you've got it wrong."

"I am never wrong," Sherlock retorted icily.

"Well, you are about this."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

They stared at each other angrily for a few moments. Watson's face was stubborn, lips set in a mulish line - but Sherlock wasn't looking at his lips. Or his lapis lazuli eyes. Unusual shade, he noted remotely, studying the boy's face intently.

"Well, then," he said bitingly, gaze challenging, "if you wouldn't mind, enlighten me."

Watson frowned. "Fine. Truth is, I wasn't pretending. That thing you did back there, it was brilliant. Really. I've never seen anything like it." He raked a hand through his hair absently, leaving it tousled. Sherlock was struck with an insane desire to reach out and smooth it down again, and curled his hands into fists.

"Alright, I'm going." It seemed Watson had noticed the gesture, and though his words were light Sherlock could hear a thread of bitterness underneath them.

He watched the shorter boy walk a few steps away before bursting out, "Why did Lestrade wish to speak with you?"

"He was, um, complimenting me. On my poem." Watson sighed, and scuffed a foot on the ground.

"Is that so?"

"Yes!" Watson's lips turned up a bit at the corners. "He said... it was good. Well-written, I mean. And, um, insightful."

Insightful? Insightful about _him_? How in God's name...?

"Why did he say that?" he inquired evenly, and Watson was blushing.

Why was he blushing? Why? How infuriating.

"Er, I dunno. Stuff I said, I guess."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wanting to grab the other boy by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him. "Yes, and would you care to elaborate?" he asked, and this time he couldn't keep the impatience from creeping into his tone.

Mouth parted slightly, Watson looked at him for a moment, appearing as if he were weighing something in his mind.

"Well, I said you were like an antique," he admitted, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, considering. An antique? Certainly not the worst thing he had been called, and he wasn't even sure the term was an insult.

"Why?"

"Because!" Watson said, waving his hands around. Sherlock stared at him. "You look like a lord, or something. You dress -"

"I wear the same uniform as everyone else."

"Yes, but on you it's different!" Watson burst out, then pressed his lips together so tight they disappeared. He looked mortified. "I mean - well. Bollocks," he muttered, looking down.

His lack of clarity was aggravating. Sherlock frowned for what felt like the millionth time.

"I do not understand your point," he said rigidly. Watson looked up and let out a slight snort of laughter.

"Well, alright. It doesn't matter," he said, and then smiled. It was uncertain, and shy, and Sherlock's brain did a little stutter-stutter as he watched.

He automatically gave the boy one of his patent 'social obligation' smiles, but it felt different when Watson grinned wider, eyes crinkling, and Sherlock wanted to trace the crease of his eyelids. He looked away, feeling heat bloom uncomfortably under his collar. Ridiculous, he huffed, shifting his bag around on his back. Utterly ludicrous.

Billy was waving to him from where he parked the family car, waiting patiently in the front seat. Sherlock glanced at Watson, feeling strangely hesitant. "You've missed the bus home," he stated, studying the boy.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Watson looked at his watch, turning to see the nearly empty parking lot.

"I have a car." The offer was surprising even to Sherlock's ears, and he cringed. "If you have need of a ride to your house."

Watson's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied dismissively, taking that as an acceptance. He turned and began to stride away, leaving Watson to scramble after him.

"Wait up!"

They reached the car simultaneously, and Sherlock pouted. He needed to exercise more.

"Are you sure it's -"

"Please get in." Sherlock arranged himself in the back seat. Watson hesitated for a moment, and then clambered in next to him.

It prompted a strange feeling of pride, sitting there with another person. Not a friend, of course, but a classmate. An acquaintance, nothing more. Sherlock had never had an acquaintance.

He wondered what Watson's house looked like.

**:::**

The temperature inside Sherlock's car was the perfect balance of warm and cool, but John felt a bit hot nonetheless.

Sherlock was ignoring him in favor of fiddling with his mobile phone, and John kept his gaze trained on the trees whizzing past, ground covered in slowly melting snow.

After perhaps ten minutes of smooth silence, Sherlock tucked the mobile into his blazer's breast pocket. John waited a few moments and cleared his throat.

"So, erm, we've got to finish the rest of the questions. I suppose. Eventually."

Sherlock grimaced. "Dull."

"Yeah," John agreed, and he bit back a grin. The scenery outside the window was still unfamiliar, and he wondered for a second whether Sherlock had kidnapped him to be part of one of his experiments. He found it worrisome that the thought didn't fill him with dread, just a breathless sort of exhilaration.

Soon enough, however, they passed the local cinema, then the diner his mum wanted them to try out, and then in a flash the car pulled to a stop outside John's house. He bit his lip, suddenly embarrassed. Through Sherlock's eyes it must have seemed decrepit; the paint job needed a lot of fixing up, and more than one window was boarded up.

"Thanks," he said lamely. Sherlock had his phone out again, and didn't look up. "Do you want to -" he stopped, throat dry. Was he really going to do this? "Do you want to maybe come in, for a bit? Tea, or something? We can finish the questions, if you like."

Sherlock head jerked up, shock flashing in his eyes for a fraction of a second, and John could have sworn he saw a bit of fear there as well.

"Look, you don't have to," he began, stomach churning. Bloody hell, he had ruined everything. "It's alright, I was just -"

Sherlock cut him off. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I accept. It is..." he paused. "Practical." He extracted himself from the car with an easy grace. The window rolled down. "Billy, please inform Mummy that I will be home late. I am working on a school project, if she asks."

The chauffeur grinned amiably. "You know she will, Mr. Holmes. She always does."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, I know," he said crossly. "Thank you."

The driver gave a mock salute. "My pleasure, Mr. Holmes," he answered. "Just send the word when I should return."

He rolled down the window, and the car sped off, leaving cold air and silence in its wake. John led the way up to the door, cursing himself.

"My mum's a bit loony," he warned, fishing around in his pockets for the key to the front door. "But she's very nice, and makes great food, so I keep her around." He looked up to see if Sherlock had laughed at the joke.

He hadn't. He was gazing at the house, and John could practically see the gears working in his brain, processing and storing the information in the shadowy corners of his mind.

The key clicked in the lock at last. John pushed open the door with trepidation, holding it open for Sherlock and closing it behind him.

"You can put your bag down here, if you want," he offered, taking his backpack off and setting it against the wall.

Sherlock situated his bag next to John's and then straightened up. He was strangely quiet, and it was a bit frightening, weirdly enough.

"John, sweetie, is that you?"

Mother, John sighed, and then shouted, "Yes, mum, it's me!"

He heard her bustling around in the kitchen. Good mood then, he mused, thanking god. She never cooked unless she was feeling well. He started towards the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was following. The boy looked back, raising one elegant eyebrow. John flushed.

"Dearie, why are you so late -"

His mum, brown curls frizzier than normal, stopped dead when she saw Sherlock.

John was impressed that he had actually managed to render her speechless. But Mrs. Watson recovered lightning-fast, drying her hands on her favorite plaid apron and smiling so widely John thought her face might split in two.

"Hello," she said cheerily.

"Mum," John began in warning, but she had already bounded over to them, beaming. She extended her hand to Sherlock, talking quickly.

"What's your name? I'm John's mum. It's so nice to meet you!" She sucked in a quick breath. "I'm so glad he brought a friend over! I mean to say, it's just been ages. I was worried, you know, new school and all, but he's such a nice boy I just knew a friend would come along -"

John stopped her there, face tomato-red. "Mum!" He rubbed the back of his neck, pointedly not looking at Sherlock. "We're just working on a school project."

'Practical', Sherlock had called it. Well, fine. John would keep it practical.

His mum deflated a little, eyes darting back and forth between them.

Then Sherlock reached out and clasped her hand in his, shaking it as if she were a court lady, dainty and delicate. "Lovely to meet you, too, Mrs. Watson," he declared, smiling radiantly. "I'm Sherlock."

John gawked at him. His mother, meanwhile, was melting. "Oh, you're too sweet," she cooed, and John could have sworn he saw her blush.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Well, I suppose we ought to get started, John," he said, and his eyes crinkled with the force of his smile. What a suck-up, John thought nastily, a little piqued that he'd managed to charm his mum so quickly. He knew Sherlock didn't give one fuck about this, so he didn't have to _pretend._

"Oh, bless your heart," Mrs. Watson cooed.

"Yeah," John bit out through gritted teeth. "I suppose we should get to work, Sherlock." What was he playing at, being a complete prat to John and then talking up John's mum like he was a fucking prince?

Mrs. Watson looked scandalized. "Sweetie," she scolded. "You haven't offered our guest any refreshment."

"Alright, mum," he said, and stomped over to the fridge. Bloody stupid Sherlock with his bloody stupid smile and his equally stupid charming fucking face.

His mum patted a chair. "Sit down, dear," she told Sherlock, and shooed John away from the refrigerator.

He took the neighboring seat grudgingly, keeping his eyes locked on the granite counter top as his mother set a plate of cookies down on the table. 'Talk to him!' she mouthed. John scowled.

It had been weirdly sunny for a few days, and he really was going to say something about that, but the door opened loudly before he could say a word.

"Oh, that'll be Harriet!" his mother said happily, and swept towards the foyer.

John swore again, this time under his breath. He heard the conversation from the kitchen.

"Harry, darling, hello!"

"Mum," was the curt reply. John winced.

"How did you get home, sweetie?"

"Someone drove me, obviously."

John could imagine his mother forging on in the face of the one-word responses.

"Who was it, dear?"

Bad move, John thought. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to block out the conversation.

"Why do you care? I'm home now, right? Don't smother me."

"Darling, I only -"

He heard Harry throw her bag down. "You're so annoying."

"Harry, I just want to be involved in your life. I'm trying, I really am." John's mother's voice was cracking, and he closed his eyes.

"Don't bother." John heard Harry pound up the stairs, and then her door banged shut.

John cursed and went to find his mum, who was staring at the staircase with a dazed, shocked expression. He put his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder. "What did I do, John?"

"Nothing," he replied, hating his sister. He stroked her hair, and after a few moments she straightened up, smoothing her apron and plastering on a fake, fragile grin.

"I'm fine, dear. Thank you." She pulled him into a hug. "You're a good boy."

John managed a weak smile, pressed into her shoulder. "Thanks, mum."

She reached out and smoothed the short fringe of his hair. "Run along, now. And be nice," she added, fixing him with a mock glare. John smiled again, stronger this time. That was better.

Damn. Sherlock. He was still seated at the table, fingers intertwined and resting on his mouth, eyes faraway and fixed on some indeterminate point.

John sat down heavily and reached for another cookie. "Sorry about that," he muttered awkwardly, breaking it in half and offering the bigger piece to Sherlock.

The taller boy seemed to awaken from some deep meditation. "What?"

John held out the broken cookie. Sherlock frowned distastefully, and he withdrew his hand with a shrug.

"So," he began, feeling completely and totally out of his depth. "Do you want to go up to my room?"

He flushed bright red as soon as the words came out, realizing how they sounded a bit too late. He licked his lips. "I mean, to work. On the thing."

Spot-on, John, he thought, kicking himself. Great way to sound like a pervert.

He thought he saw a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Shut up."

Sherlock rose. "I don't believe I said anything," he responded, seeming genuinely hurt. John just looked at him for a second, and then let out a chuckle. Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You're a great actor, you know," John commented dryly, trudging up the stairs. He did a mental check - he had put all the clothes in the hamper this morning, so no underwear lying in embarrassing places; porn magazine (a parting gift from a mate at his old school) safely hidden in the closet. Everything was in its place.

Sherlock bounded up the steps behind him. "How did you know I was acting?" he asked.

John spoke without thinking. "Because I know you," he replied, and then stopped dead outside his door. Fucking hell, he thought, and stuttered out, "I mean, I know the real you."

Sherlock was still behind him, and John couldn't quite look him in the eye. "What is the real me, pray tell?"

"Just - forget it." John shook his head and pushed open the door. "Well. Here it is." He raised his hands. "Welcome to my humble abode!"

Sherlock smirked, taking in the crumpled but made bed, the nightstand piled with books, the couch (perpetually smelling of mothballs) that had been a gift from John's Aunt Francine.

Seeming satisfied with his observations, he strode over and lowered himself gracefully onto the shabby sofa, crossing his legs at the knee.

"Make yourself at home," John said wryly, and plopped down onto the bed, laying on his stomach.

Sherlock was staring at him, but when John looked back he broke off his gaze quickly and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper. "I have the questions."

John rested his head on his hands. "Alright, let's start. Didn't we leave off at the 'role of your friends' one?"

He wasn't expecting the crease between Sherlock's eyebrows and the almost imperceptible thinning of his lips.

"Fine," Sherlock said, voice considerably colder. "If it needs saying, then I shall say it. I don't have friends." He was glaring daggers at John.

"Neither do I," John countered. It was the truth; his mates at St. Vincent's barely contacted him, and they had never really got on well in the first place.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John braced himself for a nasty retort. But shockingly enough, he just looked back down at the paper.

"How much time do you spend on the computer per day?"

John considered the question. "About an hour," he replied, factoring in homework and checking his email for any news from his dad. He wasn't the social networking type.

Sherlock sniffed, recrossing his legs. "Four to five," he threw out.

"What do you do for all that time?" John asked, genuinely curious, then reddened. What if it was porn?

It's not porn, he told himself firmly. Anyway, Sherlock didn't - couldn't - do that, and John suddenly had to stop his thoughts very quickly.

He rolled over on his back, trying to force his face into its normal color. Where the hell had that thought come from?

"Research." Sherlock's voice sounded bored.

"Oh." John licked his lips. "How many more of these are there?" he asked, then backtracked. "I mean, not that I'm not enjoying this -" he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm just curious."

"Two," Sherlock answered, ignoring his stammers.

"Right," John said, and blew a long whoosh of air out his mouth. Perhaps he could manage to not make a complete arse of himself until Sherlock left.

They sat in silence for a little while, until John got uncomfortable and rolled back onto his stomach. Sherlock moved his eyes from where they had been studying the wall.

"Shall we continue?"

"Er, yeah."

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking disinterested. "Next is: How does food dictate your habits? I.e., do you keep to a strict diet or indulge?" He continued, "Easy. I eat rarely, only when my body necessitates it."

"That's not very healthy."

"I'm not dead, am I?" Sherlock said idly. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Yet, at least."

"Still." John frowned. "Your body needs nutrients."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor Watson."

Prat, John thought again. "Just get on with it," he said, rolling his eyes.

"As you wish." Sherlock looked down at the paper. "Last question: If you had one word to describe your daily life, what would it be and why?"

"Well," John scratched his head self-consciously. "Um. I suppose I would call it boring. Ordinary," he added quickly. What a stupid question. They were all stupid questions, no wonder Sherlock looked like he was bored out of his mind.

"Mine is predictable."

"What?" When he looked up, Sherlock's gaze was locked on one of the stains in the carpet. "Predictable?" he repeated, staring quizzically. "Really?"

"Oh, do you have a better word?"

"No." Jesus, why was he so prickly? "It's just - my life is predictable. Yours is anything but."

"Just because I act differently does not signify that I find my existence interesting." The words had a certain bite to them, and Sherlock's eyes swung to meet John's gaze suddenly. He looked irritated.

"Okay, well, fine. Sorry," John said awkwardly.

Sherlock leaned forward, eyes flashing with curiosity. "Why do you find your life ordinary?"

"Um." John tried to find a coherent answer. "It just - it just is. I mean, I've got a mum and a dad, and a house. I go to school every day. And I'm not missing a limb or an eye or anything." He considered the question again. "Yep. Pretty normal."

"Your father's in the military," Sherlock retorted, gazing at John with what he could have sworn was genuine puzzlement. "Your sister's a lesbian -"

"Oi! Keep your voice down!"

Sherlock brushed this off. "And you're far more intelligent than the average human male," he concluded.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me perfectly; I'm not saying it again."

"You think I'm intelligent?" He must have been grinning like a madman. Sherlock watched him carefully, expression unreadable.

"It's not an opinion, it's a fact," he replied curtly, crumpling the question sheet and stowing it his pocket.

John chuckled and flopped onto his back with a loud thump, hearing the springs whine in protest. "I'm not actually that smart," he said dryly. "As much as I'd like to be." He sighed. "I'm failing maths."

Sherlock was silent, eyes on the floor once more. John bit his lip. I'm boring him, he thought again.

"I could... help you, if you wish," Sherlock said, slower than anything he had said before.

Was he serious? "Could you?" John scrambled onto his knees and ran a surprised hand through his hair. "That would be brilliant!" Sherlock just stared at him again, frowning, and John slowed down a bit, uncertain. "I mean -"

"What are you studying?" Sherlock interrupted, ignoring him. He traced the seam of the couch with one long, thin finger.

The finger, much more bony and elegant than any of John's, was hypnotizing. John tore his eyes away. "Oh, erm, differential equations," he said absently, wondering if Sherlock played the piano.

"I learned that at age ten," Sherlock declared, mouth twisting in condescension.

"I'll have you know I'm in an advanced class," John informed him indignantly. "For normal people, I suppose."

He slid off his bed, stifling a laugh at the sight of Sherlock's pout. Not many people bothered to talk to Sherlock Holmes, let alone tease him. It was sort of exhilarating, like outwitting an angry bear, and he smiled as he crossed the room.

"I"ll go get my assignment, maybe you could help me with that."

**:::**

Their legs were about ten inches apart when John sat down on the sofa. He couldn't help but notice Sherlock stiffen beside him as he lowered himself onto the cushion, and with a rush of hurt (you're being stupid) he moved his thigh farther away.

It didn't make him feel any better that Sherlock was acting like a bloody statue, all frozen and rigid. It was like he thought John was contagious, or something. John set down the two sheets of paper, placing the pencil within Sherlock's reach. He hesitated.

"Well, if you could explain the first one, er, that would be..."

"Of course." The words were clipped and short, but Sherlock picked up the pencil and began to scribble underneath the first problem. John watched with fascination, almost disappointed when he stopped writing in his strange, mostly unreadable scrawl.

John sat silently for a few seconds, awaiting an explanation to the hastily-written, confusing solution.

"Well." Sherlock looked impatient, reclining elegantly beside him, the picture of a haughty prince. "Go on. The rest are similar."

"What?" John asked finally, amazed. "You expect me to just... get it, just like that?"

"Yes." The taller boy seemed annoyed. "I wrote it out for you. Look at it."

John rubbed his eyes. "First of all," he began. "I can't read that." He gestured to Sherlock's lines of equations. "Second, you need to explain. I mean, tell me why."

Sherlock gazed at him, and John was sure he was going to spring up angrily and stride out of the house. But instead he picked up the paper again, sighing like it was unthinkable to have to elucidate his brilliance.

"First of all," Sherlock began disdainfully, then launched into a lengthy explanation, mentioning functions and 'vector-valued' and 'matrix-valued' and partial derivatives, and John had to pull on his sleeve a few times to slow him down.

John was working through one of the problems, Sherlock leaning over his shoulder, when his mum knocked on the door.

He jumped in surprise, jolting Sherlock's jaw with his shoulder. "Sorry!" he said guiltily, realizing suddenly how close they had been sitting. "You alright?"

Sherlock had retreated to the edge of the sofa, hand on his jaw, looking annoyed. "I believe so," he answered stiffly, massaging it with his fingers.

Mrs. Watson knocked again, louder this time. "John!" she called with concern. "Are you two alright in there?"

"Yes, we're fine! You can open the door."

She poked her head in, beaming. "Oh Sherlock dear, you're helping John with his schoolwork, you're so kind."

Sherlock managed a smile in return. "It's no trouble, Mrs. Watson," he said. "I covered this months ago."

John's mother didn't notice the condescending tone, and murmured praise while John coughed awkwardly. He felt a bit cold all of the sudden, and snorted at himself. It wasn't like he and Sherlock had been cuddling, or anything stupid like that. There was no reason for him to be shivering. Stupid, he told himself again. Stop being such an idiot.

"John, will Sherlock be staying for dinner?" His mother looked at him expectantly.

Bloody fuck. John could only imagine the destruction she could wreak during a whole dinner. "Er, would you like to?" he asked Sherlock, trying to sound like he really wanted the other boy to stay, and not like he'd rather have a rat gnaw his fingers off.

Sherlock frowned at him, eyes lingering on John's for a moment. He looked as if he were trying to see right into John. Well, for all you know, he can, John thought wryly. The idea was beyond terrifying. Sherlock gave a little cough. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience you -"

"Of course not, dear!" Mrs. Watson interjected earnestly. "We'd love to have you!"

Realizing that he was gaping at Sherlock like a fish, John shook the fog out of his brain. "Yeah, it's the least I can do now that you've practically done my assignment," he said, grinning.

Sherlock looked at him for another long second. "Well, I suppose that would be very enjoyable," he said slowly. He swung his eyes from John to his mother, and John felt his body relax, now that he wasn't pinned down by the other boy's gaze. Christ, he stared at you like he was either going to stick a knife in your ribs or kiss you.

And John was going to shut up, before his fucking queer mind could somehow get his mouth to blurt out something he'd rather not have said. Especially not with his mum right there.

"Oh, how nice," his mum exclaimed. Her happy look faded for a second, replaced by something akin to horror. "Dear me, I'll have to make another serving of everything!"


	2. Chapter 2

After a while, John's mum called, "_Dinner!"_

John put the pencil down with a satisfied sigh and stood, stretching. He glanced at Sherlock. "Guess you're going to have to eat real food," he said, grinning broadly.

Sherlock grimaced. "At least it's for a good cause."

John chuckled.

/

Harry was standing at the top of the stairs, hair in a messy ponytail and dressed in loose sweatpants and one of their dad's old jumpers. The sleeves were bunched up to her elbows, and she was grinning down at her new phone, thumbs moving at the speed of light. John bet his life she was texting Clara.

She looked up in surprise at the sight of Sherlock, mouth twisting. "Who's your friend, Johnny?"

"Don't call me that," John said through clenched teeth. He sighed. "Sherlock, Harry. Harry, Sherlock."

Harry's grin widened. "Sherlock Holmes?" she asked in disbelief. "You're Sherlock Holmes?" She ran her eyes up and down the tall boy curiously.

Sherlock managed a frosty smile. "Guilty as charged," he answered.

Harry was still appraising him. "I know who _you_ are," she said loftily. "People talk about you. You're supposed to be totally _mad_."

Sherlock said nothing.

She continued, leaning over to John. "He's hotter than I imagined," she said conspiratorially, eyes lingering on Sherlock's chest and legs. "Not my cup of tea, though."

John felt uncomfortable. "Yes, well…" he trailed off, wishing Harry would just go down the bloody stairs.

She was still gazing up at Sherlock, eyes challenging. "Well? Don't you want to know why I don't _want_ you, big boy?" She leaned back and folded her arms.

"I already know," Sherlock replied with a cold smile.

John winced. "I didn't tell him," he said quickly, fearing another tantrum. But Harry just looked at the other boy, mouth open in excitement.

"So it's true," she breathed, then whooped out a laugh. "You _are _a freaky genius."

A few seconds passed, slowly, achingly, and then she continued, "You seem alright, though." She nodded to John with a wink. "Sure know how to pick 'em, Johnny boy."

John's mouth fell open. "No, it's not -" he began quickly, but Harry just smiled and slid down the railing with a farewell flourish.

"Whatever you say, Johnny!"

Luckily, their mother decided at that moment to call up again. "Boys! _Dinner!_"

John sighed in relief, and then gestured red-faced for Sherlock to go down first. He followed, watching the other boy's dark-brown head bob gracefully in front of him.

/

His mother had made an absolute feast. Roast chicken, rice, baked potatoes. John felt a small spark of pride, even though Sherlock had made it clear that he was entirely uninterested and unimpressed with food.

"Looks great, Mum," John enthused, stomach growling loudly. Sherlock heard, and gave a tiny snort only audible to his ears.

"Lovely," the other boy agreed with a bright smile. "Anything I can do to help, Mrs. Watson?"

She beamed at him. "No, no, dearie! Go sit yourself down, John can manage."

John resolved to 'accidentally' spill water on Sherlock at some point during the meal. But of course, he mused, he would probably be made to clean that up, too. He brought out the chicken, the rice, and the baked potatoes, burning his hands but muffling a laugh at the sight of Sherlock's face, eyes wide with dismay.

"Looks delicious, doesn't it?" John murmured to the other boy, lowering himself into the neighboring chair. "Enjoy!"

John's mother said a quick prayer for his father and told them to dig in. He reached speedily for the two chicken legs, batting Harry's hands away. "Mum!" she whined. "John doesn't get both!"

His mum smiled indulgently. "John, be a good boy and give your sister one." He plopped it in Harry's hand sullenly, smearing grease all over her palm.

Sherlock was hesitantly dishing himself rice. "How much of this am I supposed to take?" he hissed into John's ear.

"One more spoonful," John whispered back, feeling vindictive. Sherlock already had a mound of rice heaping his plate. "Bit different from your usual fare, isn't it?" he continued, grinning. "All that rat and human flesh must get tiring after a while."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "It's actually surprisingly succulent," he replied, adding, "with seasoning, of course."

John suppressed a snicker, doling himself a large helping of rice. "Pass the salt, please."

John's mum was spreading odious fake butter on her potato. "So Sherlock, dear, what do your parents do?" she asked.

John shook his head, resigned. _Here comes the interrogation_, he thought ruefully.

Sherlock swallowed the mouthful he had been slowly chewing. "My mother is a part-time interior designer," he answered.

"Oh, how nice! And your father?"

"He's the senior undersecretary to the deputy prime minister," Sherlock replied modestly.

"Oh!" John's mother smiled in astonishment. "How wonderful! Does he find his work interesting?"

"I believe so," Sherlock responded dryly. "But it seems very confusing to me." John sniggered.

"Well, I can't argue there," his mum agreed cheerfully. "But he must get to meet all sorts of people!"

Sherlock smiled. "I suppose so," he allowed, taking another bite of rice with only a second's pause.

Thankfully, John's mother chose that point to direct her attention onto her daughter, who was staring down at her cell phone yet again and biting her lip in laughter.

"Harry," she chided gently. "No phones at the dinner table."

Harry tucked it in her pocket, still grinning.

"Unless it's a certain special someone?" John's mother ventured, smiling.

Harry ducked her head, looking embarrassed. "Mum," she complained, but there was no bite to it.

John's mum zipped her lips, putting on a serious face. "We shan't speak of her," she promised, and Harry actually giggled.

John was relieved that this was actually going kind of well. Relieved and a bit amazed. But his amusement evaporated as his mother focused on him. "John, you haven't told us how you and Sherlock met." She scooped up the last bite of rice on her plate gracefully. "Go on, I'm dying to know."

"Oh, well, um, he's my seat partner," John started absently. "In that class I told you about - Interpersonal Relationships."

He was startled by his mother's gasp of excitement. "Oh," she said, eyes wide. "He's _that_ boy."

John was alarmed. "What do you mean, 'that boy'?"

"Well dear, the one you wrote that incredible poem about, of course!" She shook her head at Sherlock, smiling. "He can barely remember his own name, most days." His mother chewed a mouthful of potato, and then swallowed. "Anyways, John, you never did tell me how your teacher liked it. I thought it was _marvelous_. Didn't it start with "He is extraordinary" or something like that? Absolutely brilliant, it was. Very thoughtful." She winked at Sherlock. "Is it true you can tell who someone's father is by the way they wear their jeans?"

John stood up abruptly. "I'll - I'll clear the dishes," he managed, pushing back his chair and almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. _Goddamn it all_, he thought viciously, balancing the rice bowl on the mushy remains of his potato.

Once in the kitchen, John heard Sherlock's chair scrape back. "I think I'll help John," he announced.

_No no no no no_. John sighed. _Bloody humiliating_. He was never supposed to read the stupid thing.

John kept his eyes locked on the garbage bin as he emptied the leftovers of his plate. He threw the fork and knife into the sink with a jarring clang and then swore, placing his plate in more gently.

Sherlock was quiet behind him, and as soon as John moved away he began to mimic his actions, scraping bits of uneaten food into the garbage. With an inward curse John grabbed more plates and started to repeat the process, mouth twisted in a stubborn, silent line.

Finally Sherlock spoke. "I've never seen someone get so upset over a compliment," he declared, pausing at John's elbow.

John ignored him, methodically continuing to clean. "Yeah, well," he muttered. "It was supposed to be private."

"You're overreacting."

John scowled, whacking the rice bowl against the side of the bin in short, violent bursts. No matter how many times he hit it, bits of rice would just cling obstinately to the sides.

Sherlock took the bowl out of John's hands. "A bit of washing might be ideal," he commented dryly, turning the faucet so a stream of water burst out. He turned it over and over in his hands so that the residue was sucked down the drain. It was funny watching Sherlock clean, John thought, his lips pressed together in concentration. John felt his anger slipping away, gave up on it, and just leaned against the counter top, chuckling. Sherlock looked at him warily.

"It's just -" John giggled. "You, cleaning. Never thought I'd see the day."

Sherlock quirked up the corner of his lips. "Yes, well," he said. "You were going to beat it within an inch of its life."

"True," John admitted, adding a grudging, "Thanks."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, mocking. "I'm sure you can do better than _that_, John."

John felt a strange thrill go through him when the other boy said his name. He forgot any witty reply he was going to shoot back, and ended up just raking a confused hand through his hair. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, following the movement like a predator tracking its prey.

John's mother chose that moment to bustle noisily into the room. "Oh thank you, dears. I'll finish up here. Sherlock, would you like to call your parents?"

Sherlock smiled politely. "Yes, that would be a good idea," he agreed, and took his phone out of his pocket. John couldn't resist peering over at the text he was sending.

The recipient was 'Billy', the chauffeur, and the message was simply: _I am ready,_ then John's address.

Sherlock noticed his staring. "Problem?"

"That's it?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. That's all that is necessary."

"It's not very polite," John pointed out.

Sherlock scowled, and then typed out a 'Thank you' at the end. "Is that satisfactory?"

John's mother returned, carrying three bowls of custard. "Boys, bring these out, you can eat them while Sherlock is waiting."

John smirked at the alarm on the other boy's face. "Don't worry," he whispered. "Me and Harry can split yours."

Sherlock nodded. They plopped down once more, John scooping a generous portion of Sherlock's custard onto his own plate, then dumping the rest onto Harry's.

"So," John began. Harry was ignoring them, texting furiously. "We've got class tomorrow."

Sherlock gave him a look. Huffing out a laugh, John swallowed a large mouthful of custard. "And we're going to have to talk again."

"How will I ever survive," Sherlock deadpanned, fingers playing idly with the red tablecloth.

John sucked at the end of his spoon lazily, feeling his face redden as the other boy watched the movement intently. He forgot what he was going to say again. "Um. Do you -" he broke off fearfully, changing course. "Where do you eat lunch?"

Sherlock was studying the wall, looking bored. "I don't eat _lunch_," he replied disdainfully.

"Right. So, erm, where do you go during lunch period?"

"Outside." Sherlock waved a vague hand, and then seemed to focus in on their conversation. He fixed John with a hard stare. "Where do _you_ eat lunch?"

John stumbled, unable to tear himself away from the clear, gleaming gray eyes across from his. "They have me in a group lunch with all the other new kids," he answered. "To get us to make friends, or something. But," he added carefully, "it ended today. So I don't have anyone to eat with."

Sherlock considered him silently. "You are welcome to sit with me," he bit out stiffly, hand tightening in the folds of the tablecloth.

_Thank God_, John breathed internally, and grinned. "Thanks."

"I typically can be found by the spruce tree in the back courtyard," Sherlock said, voice sounding thoroughly bored once more. John heard a little ping, and saw the other boy pull out his phone.

"Ah, Billy has arrived," Sherlock announced, leaping up gracefully. John scrambled to stand as well. "Pleasure to meet you," he continued coolly to Harry, who looked up for a second and mumbled, "Yeah. Bye."

His mum was washing dishes when they came out. "Ready to go, dear?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Thank you for having me, Mrs. Watson."

She beamed. "Anytime, Sherlock, anytime!"

John walked him to the door, suddenly unwilling to let him leave. It sort of felt like a strange, mad dream, one that would disappear the instant Sherlock slipped out his door and into the nighttime.

They both paused. "Goodbye," Sherlock said finally, pulling up the collar of his austere black coat.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Bye."

At last Sherlock turned, pulling open the door handle. "The spruce tree, John," he repeated, and then slid out the door. John watched, mouth a large 'O' of wonder, eyes following the tall, thin body as it was swallowed up by the blackness. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was a blustery, chilling day, the kind that Sherlock hated. He turned the corner of the school rapidly, striding towards the almost-bare tree and well-worn bench he made his home for the 45 minutes they were given each afternoon.

Except today was different, because instead of a just forbidding black trunk there was a lone figure, looking small and cold in the wind. The body was of medium build, the right size and shape to be John.

Sherlock felt a strange tension ease out of him at the sight, and frowned. When had he started thinking of the other boy as 'John'? _Probably when he started calling you 'Sherlock'_, a voice that sounded irritatingly similar to Mycroft's answered.

With a few long steps the blur sharpened into a hunched and miserable John, clutching a sad satchel.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock said formally. John looked up and made a face.

"Took you long enough," he replied. "I've been freezing my - well, my toes off." He slid over a bit so Sherlock could take a seat, which he did, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping a pair of gloved hands around them.

"So." John unwrapped a small tinfoil parcel to reveal a neatly made ham sandwich. "Here we are."

Sherlock noticed that his fingers were red and trembling with the cold. "Why don't you have gloves?" he queried, hands rubbing at his cold legs.

"I'm eating."

His calves were not warming from the friction. Sherlock scowled. "And?"

John huffed a puff of wintry air, smiling. "Oh, right," he said through a mouthful. "I forgot you don't really do that." He swallowed and continued. "People don't eat with gloves on."

"I amaware of_ that_," Sherlock hadn't meant to sound so petulant. "But being one with considerable medical knowledge, wouldn't you know to value full use of your hand over filling your belly? Frostbite is easily contracted at this time in winter."

John's face was flushed, and Sherlock assumed it was from the cold. "I wouldn't call it considerable," he said, licking his lips. They were shiny, redder than normal, and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as they expelled tiny flurries of frosty air. He tore his gaze away, feeling a sharp prick of panic, but John didn't seem to have noticed.

"Do me a favor, though," he persisted. "Just eat some of my carrots."

Sherlock looked back disdainfully. "Carrots?" he asked, raising his eyebrow at the stumpy orange sticks. "I'd rather not." He buried his face in the juncture between his knees, face warming as hot breath filled the space.

John's voice was distant and foggy. "Come on, Sherlock."

The icy air was like a slap of cold water on his face. "Why?"

"Because you need to eat. Something."

"Fine." He took the carrots mutinously, biting down. Flavorless, at least.

"There," John said with a grin. "That wasn't so hard, was it now?"

"Your patronizing tone is not appreciated, John."

They were silent for a few minutes, but it was a contemplative silence, a peaceful silence, at least for him. John ate his way slowly through his lunch while Sherlock pondered a particularly thorny mathematical equation - Fermat's Theorem.

Normally, he would have been on edge, constantly alert sitting this close to a person that wasn't his father or Mycroft or his mother. But John was harmless. His breathing was a steady smooth rhythm of exhale and inhale, punctuated by crunching or the sound of sloshing liquid. It was almost soothing to hear, not bothersome and distracting as Sherlock would have anticipated. He could picture John beside him, sharp and clear behind his eyes. Pink fingers filled with sandwich, every so often moving to his mouth to take a large bite, and then retreating as the boy chewed thoroughly, conscientiously.

He glanced at John's face. Ruminative_. Intriguing_. What could he thinking so intensely about?

There was a barely audible beep, and Sherlock looked over again to see John check his watch.

"Time's up," the boy said with a short sigh. "Better get to class."

The thought of the school, warmed by body heat, was more alluring than Sherlock wanted to admit. He sighed, unfolding himself from the bench and frowning as his stiff muscles protested.

John waited patiently as he wrapped his coat more thoroughly around himself. The one issue with maintaining a semi-anorexic diet was that it made one increasingly susceptible to cold weather.

XXXXX

"Today, since it's Friday, I thought we'd take a break from the project," Lestrade announced once everyone was accounted for. "We're going to watch a film about anger management."

There was a collective groan. "Now, now," the teacher chided, grinning. "It'll help you." He slid the disc into the computer, pressing play on a brightly colored pop-up entitled, "What Happens When _You _Get Angry?"

The film began, moving in slowly on a morose-looking man. "Everyone gets angry," he intoned solemnly, and Sherlock lost any misguided interest he might have had and started to practice going into a trance. Properly done, he could 'rest his mind' while appearing wide-awake. So far his attempts were unsuccessful, as he kept accidentally falling asleep.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a light tap on his arm. He opened his eyes quickly, looking to his left at John. The boy grinned at him, pointing at a small scrap of paper on the desk in front of him.

Curious, Sherlock unfolded it discreetly. Passing notes, he thought, smirking. Novel.

_'Two men walk into a bar,_' John had scribbled. '_One asks for H²0.'_

There was nothing else. Sherlock flipped the note over. One word - '_guess.'_

He frowned and scrawled back, _'This is ridiculous. You have not given me sufficient data.'_

John took the note, biting his lip to hide a smile as he read the reply.

A few moments later it landed back on Sherlock's desk. _ 'The other asks for H²O, too.'_

On the back it said: '_The second man dies.'_

Sherlock understood the joke immediately, curling his lip. H²0², otherwise known as hydrogen peroxide, a deadly compound when ingested in large amounts. _'Brilliant,_' he wrote back sarcastically.

John's reply came within seconds. _'I thought you might like it. I chose a chemistry one just for you.'_

At that Sherlock couldn't help but let out a breath of laughter, feeling a peculiar fission of warmth spark through him. He looked over at John, who seemed pleased with himself, and raised his eyebrow. John shrugged, grabbed the note back and wrote, _'I know, I know, I'm a complete and utter idiot.' _He added a flamboyant smiley face.

_'No, you're not' _was the reply that jumped into Sherlock's mind, but he could hardly write that. The boy was fishing for compliments, obviously. Sherlock had already informed John of his opinion on his intelligence.

Fortunately, Sherlock was saved the trouble of having to think of a response.

"Gentlemen." Lestrade looked amused. "I dearly hope that I shall not have to read that note to the class."

Sherlock said nothing, regarding the man with a cool stare. John coughed, trying to wipe the grin of his face, but Sherlock could still hear it in his voice.

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't apologize to me," Lestrade said dryly. "Apologize to yourself. You're depriving yourselves of this -" he looked at the screen, which showed a boy curled up in the fetal position - "beautiful piece of art."

Sherlock glanced over at John, and he looked back with a wry sort of half-smile, like they were connected, somehow - partners in crime, sharing a laugh. _Preposterous, _Sherlock sniffed, letting his eyes linger on the other boy even after he turned his head back to watch the film. Absolutely_ ludicrous._

For some reason, he found it very hard to maintain a trance-like state after that.

XXXXXX

The film ended a few seconds before the bell sounded, jolting and obnoxious. Sherlock wasted no time in standing up, grabbing his bag, and with an impatient sigh tapped his foot emphatically against the ground. John was struggling with his binders, swearing softly as papers dropped on the floor.

"You could help, you know, instead of just bloody standing there."

Sherlock tsked. "Please. I have no desire to get down on my knees for you." He reached into his pockets for his phone, and then noticed John had paused, looking up at him with a grin. "What?" Sherlock mulled over what he had said. _I have no desire to - _oh. "Childish," he told John, cursing the blood that rushed to his ears. Double-meaning. Obvious.

Smirking, John got to his feet.

Sherlock lead the way out of the classroom, but they got no farther than the fourth row of lockers before they were stopped by a mousy haired girl - Sarah Sawyer, junior, daughter of local surgeon.

"John!" She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, grinning shyly. "You forgot your calculator." She held it out, biting her lip.

Sherlock felt a strange tightening in his stomach. Irritating.

John looked a bit confused, but smiled back. "Thanks," he replied, taking it and stowing it in his bag. "Well, see you."

Sarah seemed disappointed. "Yeah," she said, backing away and glancing warily at Sherlock. "Anytime."

John stopped at his locker, pulling it open. Sarah and her friends were chatting nearby, though Sherlock felt their eyes drift over to John every so often, accompanied by a burst of giggles.

"She wishes to talk to you," he informed the other boy, gazing down at his phone.

"Does she?"

"Yes."

"And why's that?"

Sherlock scowled. "I would imagine because - pardon my colloquialism - she has a 'crush' on you." He stabbed at the end button savagely, thrusting his phone into his pocket.

"Oh?"

John was a red-blooded male; he should be jumping with joy at the thought of a chance to get off. Instead he was calmly shoving his books in his bag, looking for all intents and purposes wholly disinterested.

"It was patently obvious, John. Her mannerisms - touching her hair, biting her lip, tugging at her clothes - they all point to nerves, apprehension. Why would she be nervous? Conclusion: speaking to you was an important activity to her. Head cocked to the side - a subconscious reaction to her attraction to you. Simple."

John didn't seem to be affected by this new information. "Cool," he replied absently, finally slamming his locker shut. He looked back at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "We should probably get going."

Sherlock began to stride away, John hurrying after him. "You do wish to speak with her," he said. It wasn't a question.

"No, not really." John looked bemused. "Should I?"

"Don't pretend, John. You're dreadful at it, and lying doesn't become you well."

John quickened his pace next to Sherlock. "I'm not lying," he said with a hint of anger.

"Please. A half-way attractive girl basically throws herself at you and you don't even feel a shred of interest? I may not be the expert in social relations but I _can_ figure out simple adolescent motivations." Sherlock didn't quite know where the words were coming from, and they were becoming sharp and heated. He moved his long legs faster, pressing his lips together. "And you needn't worry, John. She won't reject you, no matter how much you stutter and stumble."

"Sherlock!" John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, looking incredulous. "That's not – you think I'm afraid of her not liking me? " Sherlock didn't bother to answer, glaring past him. "You don't bloody know everything all the time, alright?"

Losing control of his temper, Sherlock leaned forward, invading John's personal space. "But I do," he hissed. John barely flinched, stubbornly keeping eye contact.

"No, you really don't."

They were very close, Sherlock realized. He could make out the pale, almost invisible fringe of his eyelashes, the line of his lips, and the dark blue of his eyes. At the last minute he stopped the urge to cock his own head to the side, damning all physiological impulses.

John looked away first, jaw working. He let out a laugh, running his hand through his hair. "Fucking hell," he said finally, and Sherlock was trying very hard to listen to his words from a distance, to keep remote. "Do I have to whack you upside the head to get it through your thick skull? Whatever little box you put me in, whatever list of predicted behaviour patterns you have for me - none of it seems to be right." He rubbed his mouth, staring up earnestly at Sherlock. "Really. So please, _please_ stop being a prat."

A pretty speech, Sherlock thought, idly noting that his heart rate had increased. "I don't put people in boxes," he managed finally, frowning.

John laughed. "Oh really?" he teased, shifting his bag on his shoulder and grinning. "Mr. I'm a genius and everyone else is just scum on my Prada boots?"

Sherlock quirked his lips. "That's by far the most accurate thing you've said all day, John," he said dryly.

John grinned, then looked around, spotting Sherlock's car. "Your carriage awaits, sire."

Stifling a frown, Sherlock nodded. He had assumed John would ask him to participate in some inane activity.

"Well." As Sherlock kept silent John had a look sort of like the one Sarah had worn a few minutes ago. "Bye." He started to make his way to the front of the school. Sherlock stared after him, opening his mouth, and then mashing it shut.

"John!" Treacherous vocal chords. Sherlock was sure his nervous system had never given them the order to shout out that particular name.

Already a good distance away, the boy turned around, squinting. "Yeah?" he called back.

Sherlock waited for him to retrace his steps before beginning again. "I am in need of an extra pair of hands for an experiment," he stated, carefully keeping his eyes on the parking lot.

John looked up at him, amused. "And?"

Billy was waving to him from the driver's seat. Sherlock's mouth twisted. "_And _what?"

"Spit out whatever you want to say, Sherlock, I'm going to miss the bus," John said, pressing his lips together in an effort to hide his grin. He was teasing him, Sherlock realized with a scowl.

"Would you like to assist me?" he allowed coldly, trying to regain some shred of dignity.

"Well, don't sound so enthusiastic, whatever you do." John relented. "Alright. Sounds like a good time."

"Fine." Sherlock turned towards the car, and swallowed. There was a peculiar lump in his throat. Hm. He would have to check himself for gastroenteritis again. "Good." 


	4. Chapter 4

**To all y'all reviewers who I can't reply to, just know that I very much appreciate your comments! Thanks to everyone!**

"No! Hold it like this," Sherlock instructed, placing his hand over John's without thinking. They squeezed the pipette together, and a thin stream of clear liquid shot into the test tube.

Sherlock released the other boy's hand quickly, coloring. He kept his back to John as he fumbled with the petri dish by the sink.

Thankfully, his mother had been absent when they first arrived, crunching up the long gravel driveway. John had stared up at his house in wonder. It was quite large, Sherlock had to admit, an old Victorian home that looked eerily foreboding in dusk or nighttime.

They were having work done on the east wing, as well as Mycroft's old room, which his mother wanted to turn into a studio for her decorating business. She _had _wanted to tear down Sherlock's laboratory, but he had fought tooth and nail, sulked and starved himself pointedly until she agreed to leave it as it was.

John's mouth had fallen open at the sight Sherlock's lab: the piles of books, the ominous looking containers, the strangely colored flasks. Sherlock had felt an alien spark of pride, showing him what each held and stifling a laugh when he knocked over a bowl of rat eyes with a yelp.

Then they had embroiled themselves in Sherlock's hastily thought up experiment, attempting to determine how John's friend hydrogen peroxide affected the microbial biodegradation of polychlorinated biphenyls. It was something Sherlock had wanted to investigate for years.

"Now hold this," he told John, who took the petri dish carefully, cradling it in his hands. "Watch it for color change or any unusual odor."

"How will I be able to tell if it's unusual?" John peered questioningly at the yellowish fluid.  
>Sherlock smiled. "You will." He crossed the room and plucked a test tube out of the rack. "And now we just add this."<p>

He poured the clear liquid into the dish. They waited for a few moments.

"Oh, ugh!" John pinched his nose, gagging. "What the hell is that?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "The sweet scent of bioremediation," he declared, smirking.

They looked at each other. John burst into laughter, sliding down onto the floor. Sherlock smiled down at him.

"I don't know why that's funny," John admitted with a breathless laugh, clutching at his stomach. "But it is."

Sherlock sat down beside him, resting his chin on his knees. "I've been called many things, but never 'funny'," he commented dryly.

John stilled, looking at him, mouth parted slightly as if he was going to reply.

"Sherlock!"

Ah. Mummy had arrived. Sherlock grimaced, getting to his feet. He stalked out to the hallway. "I'm here."

Violet Holmes was a fashionably slight woman, immaculately dressed. She draped her mink coat, covered in snow, in the hands of their butler. "The roads are an absolute travesty," she announced, displeased. "Your father had to send a car to pick me up."

John had wandered out uncertainly behind him. Sherlock sighed. "Mummy, this is John Watson."

His mother looked up, and if she was surprised to see that Sherlock had brought someone home, she didn't show it. She crossed the room, peeling off her gloves. "A pleasure to meet you."

John smiled awkwardly. "Nice to meet you too." They shook hands briefly.

Mrs. Holmes smoothed her wet hair, frowning. "You might want to call your mother, John," she said.

John looked alarmed. "Why? Has something happened?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort. You two must have been very focused on your experiment not to have noticed the blizzard outside. My husband tells me they will have to close off the roads." She sighed, continuing, "Please tell your mother that we'd be delighted to have you stay over with us until the storm lets up."

Sherlock felt a strange swooping in his stomach. "Mummy!" he cried, looking at her murderously. She glared back.

"I'm sure Sherlock would love a sleepover," she told John.

"Erm." He looked at Sherlock, who was glowering at the carpet. "Thanks."

"It's no trouble," Mrs. Holmes assured him with a frosty smile. "I'll go see Andrew about bringing Mycroft's bed into Sherlock's room."

Sherlock started. "My room?" he repeated. "We have many other rooms he could sleep in!"

His mother tutted. "Yes, _darling_, but those are all either filled with toxic paint fumes or in the process of being torn to the ground." She gave him a reproachful look. "And your play-laboratory is next on the list. I need another sitting room for my new Monet."

She swept out of the room, perfectly coiffed hair bobbing.

John looked uncomfortable. "Well, I'll just..." He waved the phone. "Be a second."

Sherlock marched off to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. _Of all the times to have a snowstorm..._

He glanced around. His bed was made, rather sloppily, a condition from his mother after he had refused to let the maids touch it. It was large and soft, and Sherlock liked to curl up in it and read, nestled in the covers.

His journal lay on the nightstand. He snatched it and shoved it in the closet, where he was sure John would never find it.

Generally a bland room, Sherlock decided, pleased. It showed nothing about him.

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Sherlock?"

John. He crossed the room and pulled open the door.

"My mum says thank you," the boy mumbled. "For letting me stay over," he clarified.

"You are welcome," Sherlock replied stiffly. He let John in grudgingly, closing the door behind him.

"This is - nice."

Sherlock chuckled. "That's a matter of opinion." It was beginning to get dark already, and he could see thick white haze falling outside the window.

"Sherlock," his mother called, knocking once and entering. She held a neatly folded pile of clothes. "Here you go, John. Pajamas and fresh underthings." She held them out, unembarrassed.

John reddened. "Thanks," he said, taking the clothes.

Mrs. Holmes smiled. "My pleasure. Let Andrew know if you need anything," she called over her shoulder as she left.

Clutching the stack of clothes, John cleared his throat. "Do you mind if I take a shower?" he asked nervously. "I dunno why, I just always take them at night."

Sherlock gazed at him. John, in his shower. "Fine," he said, attempting a disinterested tone. He held his breath, feeling his heart pump loudly and desperately in his chest. _Just go._

"Er, alright." Sherlock saw the other boy make his way to the loo. "Do you mind showing me how to turn it on?" he asked, pausing at the entrance.

Sherlock scowled, and then brushed past him, making sure not to touch the other boy with any part of his body. "It's relatively uncomplicated," he told John coldly, pressing a button underneath the lever, and then turning it to the hottest level.

John squirmed beside him. "Thanks."

Sherlock tightened his lips. "I shall be in the laboratory," he informed John, and fled.

As soon as he got himself under control, he set about recording the data from their experiment, focusing on keeping his mind fully on measuring, and labeling, and far away from his room and anyone inside it.

Except to calculate the density of the gas they had created, and identify it, Sherlock was going to need to use his computer. The one in his room, which had a special plug that went in a socket that he had specifically ordered be drilled into his wall.

_Not an option_, he told himself firmly. He spent a total of forty three seconds glaring at the beaker in front of him before stomping off into his room.

Sherlock had an estimated eight to ten minutes before John would finish showering and exit the lavatory. Perhaps twelve, if he was lucky and John decided to use the toilet. He booted up the computer quickly, stubbornly refusing to think about the steady thrum of water through the wall beside him.

The door creaked open during the sixth minute, and Sherlock looked up in alarm. He prepared to explain what he was doing, but the words died somewhere in his pharynx.

John stepped out in nothing but a towel, dripping wet and flushed pink from the heat. He seemed not to notice Sherlock, who was sitting on the armchair in the corner. He crossed the room and bent down, holding the towel carefully across his lower half, while Sherlock tried to say something, anything, but couldn't.

Finally, John procured a pair of boxer briefs from the side of the bed. He turned, saw Sherlock, and yelped, nearly losing his grip on his towel.

"What the hell -" John tripped, and then regained his balance. "I thought you were -"

"I had to use my computer," Sherlock returned, wincing at the catch in his voice. He swallowed and forced himself to keep his eyes locked on John's. "The water was still running," he accused. It was John's fault, obviously. His hair was stuck in damp spikes, and Sherlock watched a fat drop of water dribble over his belly and get swallowed up in the towel.

John had a flat, tanned stomach, and a broad, subtly muscled chest. _From the rugby_, Sherlock thought faintly, and wondered if his legs were as defined from his habitual running.

John's indignant voice broke into his consciousness. "I couldn't figure out how to turn it off," he muttered. "Bloody thing."

Sherlock wished he would just return to the shower. He was bringing an abnormal amount of heat with him, and Sherlock felt the humidity surround him with each breath he took.

Sexual attraction. It was something he had felt before, but idly, remotely. In any case, the great buffoons with their bulging biceps and trunklike thighs had only ever elicited a spark of lust, quickly forgotten when they opened their mouths.

There was no mistaking it, however. The treacherous twitch in his cock when he looked at John Watson was unmistakably and entirely lust, and Sherlock hated it, he _hated_ it.

Growing uncomfortable under his stare, John retreated a few steps. "Be right out," he said quietly, and disappeared to change.

Exhaling sharply, Sherlock glared down at the bulge in his trousers, willing it to grow limp and flaccid again.

John reappeared a few minutes later, dry and clothed. He stood nervously in the middle of the room. "Um, so. Sorry about that."

Sherlock forced himself to look up. "No apology is necessary," he bit out, then put the laptop aside with a sigh_. Time to entertain_. "What would you like to do?"

John shrugged, and then picked his way over to Sherlock. "May I?" he asked politely, gesturing to the opposite chair. Frowning, Sherlock nodded.

He was silent for a few moments, then said, "So… thanks again for letting me stay."

"It's no trouble."

John shifted uncomfortably. "You ever had a sleepover before? Just wondering," he added quickly.

"No."

"Oh." John looked as if he was searching around for some other avenue of conversation. "Have you got a girlfriend, then?"

Sherlock looked at him disparagingly. "Girlfriend, no. Not really my area," he sniffed.

John nodded, biting his lip. He glanced around at the room, and then looked back. "Oh. I see."

Looking back quickly, Sherlock saw that his expression was surprised.

"Have you got a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said, scowling.

"So…" John struggled. "You've got a boyfriend?"

"No." Was that relief in his eyes?

"Well. Alright, then." John gave him a tentative smile. "You're single. Like me. Good."

Sherlock stared at him. Good? "Are you attempting make a joke?" he queried, confused. His stomach fluttered.

"What?" John asked, eyebrows drawn together. "What do you mean?"

"You were pretending to make a pass at me," Sherlock accused, and pinched the fold of loose fabric on the edge of his chair. He wished again that the snow would melt and disappear, and then he could go back to his computer and forget all about damnable John Watson. "Not very original. Many others have beaten you to it, I'm afraid. I've learned not to believe it. Sorry to ruin your fun." Scowling, he got to his feet. "If you don't mind, I would like to return to my experiment."

John scrambled off his chair. "Sherlock!"

He turned imperiously. There was an annoying tuft of damp hair sticking up on John's head, and Sherlock's hand twitched with the desire to reach out and smooth it down.

John had flushed, though from heat or anger Sherlock couldn't tell. He took a step forward. "Are you saying," he spit out through clenched teeth. "That people have asked you out as a joke? And you believed them?"

Sherlock was perplexed. "Yes, at first. Then I realized it was intended as mockery." He couldn't fathom why John was so upset.

They were close, and Sherlock was trapped against the wall. He could make out each solitary eyelash, each fleck of light blue in the other boy's serious eyes.

"I hope you punched them in the nose," John said fiercely.

"I," Sherlock said, then blinked. "I don't see how that would have helped."

John looked up at him, and his expression was a mix of anger and disgust. "Just so you know," he began softly, but his voice had a hard edge, "I would never joke about something like that."

Sherlock said nothing. There was now a pounding in his ears as well as a rushing. "Is that so?" he managed.

"Yes." John had him against the wall, and their faces were alarmingly close. "Because," he continued, slow and deliberate, "when I fancy someone, they're different. I can't stop thinking about them."

Breathless, Sherlock could only gaze at him.

"I can't concentrate, because I'm thinking about…" John paused, coloring a little. "…what their hair smells like, and what color their eyes are, and what their voice sounds like."

He reached out a hand, and it lingered to the side of Sherlock's head, like it wanted to smooth a tendril of hair behind his ear.

John looked at him, as if to ask permission, and Sherlock dipped his head a little, a sharp jerk. John's fingers were gentle, and remained, cupping Sherlock's neck with a feather-light touch.

Sherlock felt his heart rise into his throat and leaned forward, pressing his lips to John's with a steady carefulness that hid the frantic pounding of his heart.

John made a sound like a closed-off groan, and reached up to stroke Sherlock's cheekbones, pads of his thumbs rough. He backed Sherlock against the wall and slid a knee between his legs, which were open unconsciously.

Sherlock gasped at the contact, and rutted against John's thigh in quick, involuntary thrusts. He bit his lip to keep from making any embarrassing sounds, hands clutching John's hips so hard he worried about leaving blue-black marks.

John kissed soft and eager, tongue darting in deviously and twisting around Sherlock's with a deft movement. Sherlock was passive now, letting the waves of blissful sensation wash over him as John's tongue laved his mouth and his leg pressed insistently against his groin.

In the daze he felt John's erection poking urgently into his hip. The boy moved smoothly from his mouth to his neck, apparently having no compunction about making noise as he mumbled, "Fuck, Sherlock. God…"

His hands left white hot trails where they snuck up under his shirt. Sherlock felt the tell-tale tightening in his abdomen and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, because he wouldn't come, not here, not in front of -

There was a knock on the door. John leapt back, hair wildly askew, lips red and swollen and face flushed. He gulped, frantically straightening his shirt and looking anywhere but Sherlock.

Sherlock took a few moments to stop feeling like the world had collapsed on him, focusing on steadying his breathing. In the sharp shock his erection had subsided, but his trousers still felt shamefully tight and restricting.

The door rattled again. Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding John's eyes, and opened it.

The butler had his hand up to knock again, but lowered it as the door swung open. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes," he said smoothly, wisely not noticing his general state of disarray. Sherlock scowled; the man would run off to Mummy within minutes. His business was her business. "Mrs. Holmes would like me to inform you and Mr. Watson that dinner has been prepared."

"Fine," Sherlock replied shortly. "We'll be down in a moment." He shut the door before the other man could respond.

John was fiddling nervously with his jumper, but looked up when Sherlock stomped back to face him.

"Our dinner is ready," he told him tersely.

John looked dubious. "Okay." He took a few steps closer to Sherlock, but didn't touch him. Sherlock hated that he wished John would. "So. Are you - alright, with this?"

"Am I alright with what?"

John chuckled hesitantly. "Us, snogging?"

Sherlock felt a strong urge to kiss him again, to have his hands wrapped around him, strong and tight, and he _abhorred_ it. His right hand clenched into a fist.

John's eyes flared in concern. "Because if you aren't, because I know you don't like touching and that kind of thing, but I just -" He waved his hands miserably. "I don't know. You were looking at me like a bloody lost puppy, and I couldn't handle it."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked being compared to a young canine. "Is that meant as a compliment?"

John grinned. "Yep," he said. "At least, I think. Just don't do it again."

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"Because! Sad eyes, and everything."

"Sad eyes are not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah." John looked mischievous. "Except it did make me want to snog your arse off, so..." He smiled. "Sort of good."

Sherlock felt heat coil in his gut. Perhaps he could muster up the courage to march over those few steps to John, smooth out that ridiculous ruffled mess on his head, and kiss him again.

But Mummy would notice if they were late. Oh, she would definitely notice. And furthermore, Sherlock was not ready to face the humiliation of coming in his pants like a thirteen year old, especially in front of John. Even if the other boy experienced the same ordeal.

Sherlock bit back a sigh. "It would be a good idea if we went downstairs," he said. "My mother has an unfortunate habit of poking her nose where it does not belong."

John huffed. "No offense, but this isn't exactly making the best first impression," he joked. "She's got the worst timing," he added archly, grinning.

Sherlock's feet suddenly decided, completely of their own accord, to cross the few steps that separated them and kiss the smirk of the other boy's face. He carded his hand in John's hair, kissing demandingly against his surprised mouth.

"Hello there," John said once he had drawn back. His hair was an absolute mess again. "Bit eager now, are we?"

"You're one to talk," Sherlock shot back boldly, eyeing the not so subtle tenting in his trousers. John had the grace to look abashed.

"It's natural," he protested, covering himself with his hand and blushing furiously. Sherlock gave him a smug look. "Shut up!"

"You're good at that, you know," John commented as they descended the stairs.

"Good at what, exactly?"

"Snogging. How many people have you done it with? If you don't mind me asking."

Sherlock scowled. "None."

"None? You can't be serious."

"I assure you, I am perfectly serious."

John looked astounded. "But - how did you know what to do? I've snogged a lot of people who've never done it before, and they always stick their tongues in too early and start licking your teeth like it's supposed to be hot."

Sherlock frowned. How many constituted 'a lot'? The image of some idiotic oaf with his tongue shoved down John's throat was disconcerting. He chose a blunt response. "I've done research."

John let out a short bark of laughter. "Oh great, you reduced me to an incoherent puddle of goo from reading _books_. That's really going to do wonders for my ego."

"If it's any consolation, the experience was not what I expected." Sherlock felt a faint blush rise in his cheeks.

"Is that Sherlock-speak for 'I enjoyed myself'?" John teased, sliding down the banister and looking up as Sherlock stepped down carefully.

"I suppose so," he returned cautiously. John waited for him to reach the bottom, and then bounded ahead. He heard him say a bright "Hello!" to the cook, followed by "Can I help with anything?"

Margaret, a plump, rosy woman, was standing at the sink. She glanced at Sherlock as he entered, and he was all too aware that he was abnormally red in the face. Irritatingly, John seemed unbothered and carefree as a button.

"Hello, Mr. Watson. Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

"Good evening," Sherlock greeted her sullenly, taking a seat at the imposing wooden dining table. John settled in next to him.

"The soup is French onion, and the main course is braised lamb with buttered bread as a side dish," Margaret announced.

"Looks delicious," John enthused.

"Yes, thank you, Margaret," Sherlock echoed. He picked at his food, watching John shovel soup into his mouth at the speed of light. "It's not going to run away, John."

The boy paused, gulping ostentatiously. "I haven't had food this good in years," he said happily. He looked at his overflowing plate. "Maybe I should slow down." Grabbing a second hunk of bread, he continued, "I suppose you've never had a sleepover before."

"No."

"Well, you're not missing out on much," John told him wryly. "Most of mine consisted of watching porn with a bunch of blokes and wanking off. Not the best idea when you're –" he gestured hazily at his lower half. "Gay."

Sherlock tried to delete the picture that conjured up, John with his cock in hand, fisting it and stroking it, maybe fingering his balls. It would not delete.

He frowned. "They didn't know?"

John laughed. "'Course not. Would've bloody killed me. They were all mad."

"So you moved here."

"Yeah, well, you know the story. Harry was having a tough time of it." He stared into his water glass. "Then my mum lost her job."

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That sounds – difficult."

"It's no problem, really," John assured him. "Doesn't matter."

It obviously did, but Sherlock was not about to delve into that sore topic again.

John washed down his lamb chop with a large swallow of water. "So. Sleeping."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please distinguish your statements from your questions, John."

He chuckled. "Alright. Do you sleep? You know, at night? In a bed?"

"I don't spend my nights in a coffin, if that's what you mean," Sherlock said dryly. "You saw my bed."

John scratched his head. "Oh, right." His hair was drying in different directions. Sherlock couldn't help but reach out and flatten it down again, reveling in the feel of the soft strands parting underneath his fingers.

John was looking at him expressionlessly. "Hello," he said again, softly.

His mouth tasted of food, but not repulsively, though Sherlock was fascinated to discover that he could discern a separate flavor, one he recognized from before, one that he would bet was unique to the boy sitting in front of him.

The pupils of John's eyes were blown-out and black when Sherlock leaned back. John watched him for a few seconds, swallowed a couple times, and licked his lips. "Sleeping," he repeated again, slower this time. "Not sure if that's going to work out after all."

Sherlock felt his ears heat up dangerously. It was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well."

After John had stuffed himself to the point of almost vomiting, he and Sherlock had returned to his room.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the floor, saying nothing and regarding John with a concentrated stare.

John fidgeted. "So." He tugged self-consciously at his shirt. "What - er, what do you want to do now?"

Sherlock stayed silent, eyes daring John to go on.

"Are you tired?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Are you?"

"Erm, no."

They regarded each other silently. Finally, with an uncharacteristic uncertainty, Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, er. You ought to know that while I have considerable knowledge of -" he gestured to John and then to himself - "such things, I have little experience with said activities."

John took a step forward, mouth falling open. "Hey," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "I don't either. Really." He took another step towards Sherlock. "I mean, I've gotten off with a few blokes, but nothing serious. Nothing _real_," he added, for lack of a better word. He'd been tipsy those times, and couldn't quite remember what had happened. From what he did, it hadn't been very memorable.

Sherlock frowned. "In that case, I suppose you'll have to lead, due to your _expertise_." He added the last word with a sneer. "Go on, then."

John pursed his lips. _ What__a__prick_. "Fine," he shot back, stomping forward the last few feet between him and Sherlock. The other boy stood his ground, scowling back at John.

Grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck, John fit their mouths together roughly, and _hm,_ that was good. He tasted very nice for such a twat. Sherlock made a surprised sound and John took advantage of his lips parting and snuck his tongue in.

Sherlock's hands came to settle on John's waist.

"Very good," John whispered into his ear. "You're learning."

Sherlock made a noise that was suspiciously close to a growl, and it vibrated against John's cheek. His fingers clutched John's waist tighter.

John kissed him again, slow and deep, attempting to make it as filthy as possible, and Sherlock was making it very easy. He was letting out soft; almost plaintive mewls as John paused for breath. They panted together, John keeping his eyes closed, forehead pressed against Sherlock's. _Bloody__hell.__  
><em>  
>"Now," John managed, "We should probably move to the bed."<p>

He kissed Sherlock again, all the while pushing him towards the bed. John bit at that annoyingly full lower lip, and Sherlock let out a groan, pressed against the side of the mattress.

John drew back, breathing hard. Sherlock had his eyes squeezed shut, mouth slick and red and swollen, and oh God, it should have worried John how much he wanted him, all pale and gasping beneath him.

"We should..." John licked his lips. "We should get, um, situated."

Sherlock opened his eyes and just looked at him, and John almost came right there looking at those grey eyes, dark and flared with arousal.

"Shit, oh God. Um, do you want - do you want to be on top? It might make you more comfortable. So I don't do anything you don't want. To do."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I - I believe it would satisfactory for you to, ah, take charge." He swallowed. "How should I arrange myself?"

John gulped. "Er, just lay down normally, I s'pose. On your back," he clarified.

Sherlock nodded, and spread himself out. There was a conspicuous bulge in the front of his trousers, and John bit the inside of his mouth hard. _Focus,__John.__ Concentrate_.

He straddled Sherlock's hips, and the boy gasped, eyes opening wide. John slotted their bodies together, and couldn't help moaning at the contact. Sherlock thrust his hips up. "Christ," John groaned, and ground himself down. "Oh fuck. Fuck."

Sherlock's eyes were closed tight, and his chest was heaving as John leaned down and captured his mouth again, sloppy and wet. They kept up a clumsy, not-quite rhythm, moving against each other awkwardly, but it felt so goddamn incredible that John's world narrowed down into the feel of their cocks pushed together through layers of fabric, over and over.

John felt hands grip his arse, suddenly, and pull him in tighter. He whimpered, and bit the long, white neck in front of him. Sherlock arched up, eyes flying open. "John," he bit out, and John felt him come in his pants underneath him.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John panted, thrusting wildly, and did the same.

He slumped down and inhaled deeply, feeling the frantic pulse of Sherlock's heart reverberating in his ear. His crotch was wet and slightly disgusting, but for now he was content to just remember how to breathe.

After a while, John rolled off Sherlock and sat on the edge of the bed, feet resting on the floor. As he expected, there was a damp patch on the front of his trousers. Shit. He'd come in his pants like a fucking kid.

Immobile on the bed, Sherlock was breathing in and out heavily, blank eyes studying the ceiling. John cleared his throat. "So, erm. Can I borrow some more clothes?" he asked sheepishly.

Sherlock refused to look at him. "Yes," he replied shortly. John grimaced. Who knew fucking would make him _more_ irritable? Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around?

He continued. "In the closet. Third shelf from the top." Sherlock curled into a ball on the bed, hiding himself from John, and shoved his head into the pillow.

John stared at him. _What__a__strange__person_.

The closet was walk-in, which wasn't surprising. It was filled with collared shirts and black suit jackets, and smelled of stale air freshener.

The third shelf had a stack of folded black boxer briefs, and when John pulled out a pair a brown book fell out and splayed open on the floor. John recognized Sherlock's loopy, almost unintelligible handwriting, but as he leaned down curiously to pick it up, he could make out his name amidst the scribbles.

Before he could read more, however, Sherlock was standing beside him.

"That is private," he informed John in a low voice, snatching his journal back. His face was red with fury. "Did you read it?"

"N-no," John stammered, taken aback. "'Course not."

Sherlock glared at him for a few more seconds, then snaked a hand around, took another pair of underwear, and stalked out.

As soon as he was gone, John exhaled in relief. _Jesus._What was in that journal?__

_None__of__your__business_, he reproached himself. _Obviously__he__likes__his__secrets_.

Finally working up the courage to step outside, he found Sherlock pouting down at his cell phone.

John picked up the sleeping clothes Mrs. Holmes had given him. "Are these your pajamas?" he asked, holding them up into the light. "They look like they're made of silk."

Sherlock looked up disinterestedly. "I believe those belong to Mycroft," he replied.

John shrugged. "Okay." He gestured to the bathroom. "I'll just go and put them on, then."

When he returned, Sherlock was staring intently down at his phone, sitting folded up on the armchair. John wound his way over and plopped down beside him.

As Sherlock continued to ignore him, John sighed and poked his leg with his toe. "Oi! Can I at least have a book, or something?"

Sherlock flinched and scowled. He muttered something in a low voice and threw a thin black volume in his general direction.

"Thanks," John said, catching it expertly and looking at the cover. _Homeopathy__and__Epidemiologists_, by a dusty-sounding Martin Hofstadter. "Looks interesting," he commented sarcastically.

Sherlock made a disgruntled shushing sound and typed something quickly. He gazed at the screen and then leaped suddenly to his feet, smiling.

"What?" John asked, wary. "What's happened?"

"Yes, oh yes!" Sherlock paced the room, hands clenched in victorious fists. "Finally."

"Can you maybe tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock seemed to finally register his presence. "Oh, it's nothing," he said dismissively.  
>John shut the book, leaning forward with a grin. "Come on," he said. "You've got to tell me now."<p>

"My father has just confirmed that I will be working as an intern at St. Bartholomew's Hospital this summer." A nasty thought seemed to cross Sherlock's mind, and he frowned. "Intern. I dearly hope they don't make me get them coffee. Imagine." He shuddered. "We're to visit him tomorrow."

John frowned. He was leaving? "That's great, Sherlock. Sounds like something you'll like." He tried to stifle a feeling of abandonment. "How long will you be visiting him?"

"We are returning Wednesday." Sherlock was considering him. "And I will be in class that day as well."

John coughed. Was he really that bad at hiding his feelings? Heart on his sleeve, his mum had told him lovingly. "Oh. Um, okay. Good."

Sherlock wasn't listening. He was pacing about the room, thumbs moving across his phone's keyboard and muttering feverishly. "Must prepare the syringes... They might not have an adequate supply of rubidium... Hard to find in Europe..."

Ignored once again, John stood up and stretched pointedly. "I'm going to turn in," he announced, to no effect. "Night, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him. "You're going to bed?" he asked incredulously.

John nodded. "Bit tired," he said with a small grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I'll be working in the laboratory," he announced, and strode out.

John clambered into the wide bed, shifting until he was comfortable, and then stared up at the ceiling. The room was dark, and John listened for any sound of Sherlock messing around in the lab next door. There was nothing but silence.

An hour and ten minutes later, Sherlock crept back in. John kept still and pretended to be asleep, letting his mouth fall open a bit and breathing slower and louder than he would in real life. Sherlock made no sound for an achingly long minute, and John was dying to open his eyes and see what he was doing.

He heard footsteps a moment later and cracked open one eye to watch Sherlock go to the wardrobe in the corner. He pulled it open slowly and withdrew a shirt and another pair of black silk pajama pants.

John suddenly realized he was holding his breath, and sucked in a discreet lungful of air. _Shut__your__eyes,__now,__John_, he told himself firmly. _Close__them._

It ended up not mattering an awful lot, because Sherlock went behind the door of the wardrobe to change. John could make out a bobbing black head and a few glimpses of pale elbows and bony feet.

_Pervert,_ John told himself, disgusted.

_Shut__up_, he replied. _Can__'__t__bloody__well__see__anything__anyways._

But he squeezed his eyes shut, and a few moments later he heard the bed next to his creak and whine. Sherlock wriggled for a while, and then silence settled on the room.

"Trouble sleeping?"

John bit back a groan. _Dammit._ "How did you know?"

"I was entirely convinced until I saw you the second time. Quite an elementary mistake, actually. Your eyes were shut too tightly to be sleeping."

Of _course._

"You also flinched noticeably when I got into bed. Really, John, if you wish to feign sleep I have no issue but at _least_try to do it accurately." There was a sound of sheets sliding.

John peeked at Sherlock, and found him observing the ceiling with empty eyes.

"What's your dad like?" John asked suddenly. He was genuinely curious.

Sherlock made no sound for a few seconds, then: "Visually-minded. Resourceful. Physically intimidating."

John raised his eyebrow, forgetting that Sherlock couldn't see him. "Yeah, but what's he like? As a person?"

He heard a soft sigh. "Charismatic, when he wishes to be. Other times he exhibits strong sociopathic tendencies."

John bit his lip. "Ah," he said, not sure how to respond. "Is he nice?"

Sherlock chuckled grimly. "No, I wouldn't say so. He is only kind-hearted when it is in his best interest to be."

"He did get you that internship, though."

"Yes, but I think you'll find that was in his best interests as well." Sherlock sounded bitter.

"How do you mean?"

In the dim moonlight he saw Sherlock tighten his lips. "It was part of our agreement. He promised me the job if I consented to behave well in school."

"Oh."

"What is your father like?" Sherlock asked quietly, turning on his side as to face John.

"Er. Charismatic, too, I guess. Brave, obviously. Generally nice."

"Only 'generally'?"

"Yeah, well." John exhaled. "Don't really know him, do I?"

Jesus, he sounded like a spoiled child.

Sherlock was staring at him when John rolled over. "When will he be returning?" Sherlock asked, and even in the darkness it felt like he could see right through John.

"I don't know." John couldn't look away. He licked his lips. "That's the worst thing. I don't even know."

He drew in a sharp breath. _You__'__re__pitying__yourself__again,__John.__ Stop__it._

Sherlock looked away finally, and John rolled onto his back and pinched his wrist, hard. The pain shot through him, cleansing and distracting.

"He is fighting for freedom," Sherlock remarked finally. "Freedom requires the greatest sacrifice of all. From everyone it touches."

They regarded each other. John's mouth went dry. Somehow, in some crazy, lunatic way, Sherlock had said the right thing, not a half-hearted 'I'm sorry' that made John want to punch someone's face into a million pieces.

"Thank you," he managed in the end.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It was simply the truth," he stated, sounding uncomfortable.

John half-smiled into his pillow. "You're very wise, you know that? Even past the genius stuff. You know things." He hoped Sherlock couldn't see him blush. "And you say them."

Sherlock made no reply, and when John finally worked up the courage to glance over, he was asleep.

So… :D Warning for angst in the next chapter. Nothing serious, no deaths, but beware. And don't hate, please! 


	6. Chapter 6

_Music_. Music? That wasn't right. John blinked his way into consciousness lazily, batting his eyes in confusion as he took in his surroundings. There was music coming from somewhere downstairs, a morbid, sorrowful tune that floated through the air despondently.

_Weird.__  
><em>  
>Sherlock wasn't in his bed when John looked over. The covers were creased, rumpled, and decidedly bare - leaving him alone in Sherlock's room, tangled in the sheets, wearing his pajamas. Wearing his underwear. It was a bit insane.<p>

He dressed quickly, throwing on the clothes he had worn to school yesterday. Snow was still falling outside the window, and there was a deep blanket already covering the ground.

John bumped into Mrs. Holmes at the top of the stairs.

"Morning," he said hesitantly. She turned.

"Oh, good morning, John. Sherlock is in his piano lesson. I hope he didn't wake you." She looked concerned. "He plays quite forcefully."

John shook his head, fascinated by the sound of the notes rising and falling smoothly and richly. "No, not at all," he replied.

Sherlock's mother seemed relieved. "Good." She gestured to the stairs. "I'll have Margaret whip up something quick for you. And John," she added smoothly, "your mother just called. She's bringing Harry to the library and wanted to pick you up on the way. Normally I would have loved to chat with her, but I have an appointment I cannot miss. Please tell her I don't mean to be rude."

Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Holmes trotted down the stairs, disappearing from sight. John stepped down after her, afraid of getting lost. As he descended the staircase, the music grew louder and stronger, violent and tempestuous in his ears.

In the room immediately to the right at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock was pounding on the piano, eyes closed and long fingers practically flying up and down the keys. He sounded like a genuine master.

His teacher was a short, foreign-looking bloke with a trim mustache. He stood next to the piano, looking down at a leaf of sheet music and nodding along with Sherlock as he played.

And Sherlock was _incredible._ The music was dark and thunderous, and John was transfixed by the sight of him, lost within himself, and he could practically see his mind working along with his hands, five steps ahead. Sherlock couldn't possible know all that from memory. It wasn't possible.

The piece descended into a few last wistful bars, shrinking into silence. Sherlock let his hands linger above the keys for a long moment, then opened his eyes and found John staring at him, mouth open.

John swallowed, closing his mouth and licking his lips. Sherlock gazed at him, and John thought he might have seen a faint color in the other boy's cheeks as he let his eyes drop to the keys.

"Very good," the teacher praised, words clipped and short. "But you need fire, more... How do you say? More passion."

"I shall try," Sherlock replied dully. John wanted to leap in and shout that he was amazing, awe-inspiring, practically a virtuoso.

The cook appeared in the other doorway. "Mr. Watson," she greeted him with a polite smile. "Your breakfast is ready."

John tore himself away, stumbling over. He couldn't resist throwing one last look over his shoulder at Sherlock, but the boy was staring down resolutely as the piano instructor rambled on about dynamic and form and 'using your feelings.'

John's breakfast was perfectly made, but for some reason his appetite had left him.

The doorbell sounded with a brisk chime. The cook appeared at the doorway and stood with her hands clasped behind her back. "Your mother is here," she announced.

John stood awkwardly. "Erm, alright." He followed her to the imposing mahogany door. "Thank you. Can you tell Sherlock -" He broke off, biting his lip. What could he say? "Just tell him thanks," he finished lamely. _Eloquent,__John_, he imagined Sherlock saying. Yeah. He was an idiot.

His mum beamed at him when he stepped out, peering into the grand entrance hall as he shut the door. The rest of the weekend loomed ahead, bleak and dull.

XXXXX

Sunday passed in a blur of schoolwork and leftovers, though John did have a few nice wanks recreating the night of their sleepover. He tried to not think about it otherwise, because thinking about it led to awkwardly tight trousers and Harry teasing him about his red face.

And before John knew it he was stumbling through the hallways, pushing his way towards the room where the Relationships class was held. He was abnormally early, and he felt a pang of disappointment when he looked at the empty seat next to his.

Sally Donovan pranced in a few minutes later. John studiously ignored her, but to his surprise she plopped down in Sherlock's seat, appraising him with a flick of her eyes.

John fidgeted. "Er, hello."

Sally didn't waste any time. "So, you and the freak, yeah?" She grinned at him with a twist of her lips.

"How -" John stared at her, alarmed. "What?"

"Oh, shut your mouth. You look like a fucking fish." Sally leaned back. "Did he shag you yet or what?"

Blushing furiously, John licked his lips. "That's none of your business," he shot back evenly, turning his eyes back to his research paper. He heard Sally chuckle.

"Shit, he's got you. Oh, I'm so sorry."

When John looked up, Sally was holding back a laugh, eyes gleaming. She continued. "You really fell for it? His whole 'misunderstood genius' shit?"

John frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Oh come off it, Watson. Did you really think he liked you? Eating lunch together, it's pathetic."

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_," Sally replied gleefully, "that Sherlock Holmes isn't some lonely genius prude and _you__'__re_ not the hero who gets through to him. He's fucking using you." She flipped her hair smugly.

John felt a load of bile rise up in his throat, and swallowed it down painfully. "Why would he do that?"

She snickered. 'First of all, he's a psychopath. Second, he does it to everyone. You know Molly Hooper?"

John nodded involuntarily. She was a mousy, nondescript girl in his Physics class, and he'd seen her with Sherlock a few times, picking up his pens when he dropped them and complimenting his shoes with a reverent gaze.

"She's in love with him, and he knows it. He's nice to her because she lets him copy her work when he's about to fail."

John felt a sharp, piercing twist in his stomach.

"Has anyone told you about Sebastian Wilkes?" Sally asked, leaning forward and fixing her eyes on his.

John said nothing. He watched her mouth move as if from far away.

"He was new last year, so you wouldn't know him. Moved away last summer, too. Dad got a job in Glasgow or something. Anyways, he was bloody obsessed with Holmes, following him around and shit. Wilkes thought he was fucking God."

John realized he was clenching his hands so hard they were turning a deathly white. He forced himself to relax.

Sally took this as unspoken curiosity. "And they were shagging, too," she continued cruelly. "Wilkes bragged about it once when Holmes wasn't around, but everyone heard about it. Your little boyfriend never said anything different, just bloody sat there like always. Everyone knows he's a whore - everyone except you, I guess."

John closed his eyes. If she didn't shut the hell up soon, he was going to punch her in the nose, girl or no, self control be damned.

When he looked back Sally had crossed her arms. "You don't believe me, do you?" she asked.

John pursed his lips, biting back an expletive. "No," he replied tightly.

"Come on. He doesn't want a relationship from you! You think he does, that he has feelings, but he doesn't. He wanted a good mark in this shit class, and if you go running to Lestrade about how wonderful he is to work with then he won't fucking fail. And he fucked you because he's a slut. Wilkes said. Ask anyone." Sally broke off into a whisper as the first bell rang and few stragglers began to amble in. "And let me guess: he hasn't called you since you got off with each other, right?"

John stared at the wall. He counted the cracks that ran through it, thin and spidery. _ One,__two,__three,__four..._

Sally laughed beside him. "It's because he doesn't care." She stood up, smirking. "And he won't ever call you, either. Because he's a whore and you're just his little sex toy."

"Shut up," John hissed suddenly. Sally looked unsettled for a short second, but recovered quickly. She tutted.

"Now, now, John. Don't want people to go thinking you're in love with him, too." She started to head over to her desk. "Pathetic."

"Is that what he said to you?" John asked abruptly. "I mean, when he rejected you?"

Sally scowled at him, bitterness making her face ugly. "Fuck you."

John felt a pang of satisfaction. _ She__'__s__lying_, he told himself, trying to calm his breathing. _ She__'__s__just__angry._

_Easy__way__to__find__out,_ a voice whispered. _Sebastian__Wilkes._

That night, John dreamed he was strapped down on a medical bed, naked. Sherlock was staring at him like he was an insect, and under his scrutiny John squirmed. "Receptive to sexual stimulation," Sherlock observed, and his features twisted into a sneer. There was a journal in his hand, and he gave John a long, clinical look before scribbling something down. "Now let's see about emotional provocation." He took a step forward and made like he was about to caress John's cheek with his fingers, and John couldn't help but strain into the touch, anticipating the velvet soft brush on his skin.

But it never came, and John woke up hard and sweaty, swallowing down the bitter taste of shame and disappointment.

Fuck it all. He didn't care if Sherlock had fucked the entire student body, even if he had pretended to be a virgin and probably laughed at John bungling everything.

But it was harder to ignore the other bit. God, he must have seemed so _stupid,_tagging along with Sherlock like a sodding kid. And he probably knew John was sort of bloody in love with him, which made it so much _worse._

Sally's version made sense. Bloody embarrassing sense. John had probably ignored a ton of evidence that proved he was making a fool out of himself. He remembered Sherlock ignoring him the morning he left, and his skin prickled. Sherlock must have thought he was such a fucking _idiot,_thinking they were _dating_ or something completely bollocks like that.

Still, he didn't know whether this Sebastian bloke was real or just some crazy invention of Sally's to try to fuck around with him. It didn't matter, anyways, because he wasn't going to keep acting like a stupid, silly, naive, lovestruck little _child_. He'd be polite and calm to Sherlock. And it would be back to normal again.

The thought drove a spike of despair through him, but he shook it off and got ready for school. Sherlock could do whatever the hell he wanted.

XXXXXXX

Molly was made his lab partner in science, and she skipped over to John, smiling.

They were working on a set of practice problems when John popped the question.

"Molly," he began casually. "You ever heard of a bloke named Sebastian Wilkes?"

"Oh, yes!" She gave him a curious look. "Did Sherlock mention him to you? They were - well, they were good friends."

John shook his head blankly, thoughts moving at a glacial pace. "No," he heard himself say slowly. "He didn't mention him at all."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Relationships assignment: _work__ on__ your__ poem._

John stared angrily at the computer for a few seconds before beginning to type, stabbing at the keys with a savage expression.

_Sherlock__Holmes__ is__ the__ most__ infuriating__ person__ I__ have__ ever__ met,_  
><em>he<em>_'__s__ a__ genius__ but__ he__ doesn__'__t__ know__ how__ to__ be__ a__ human._  
><em>He<em>_ can__ act__ like__ anyone__ you__ can__ imagine,__ pretending__ to__ be__ normal,__ but__ he__'__s__ not._  
><em>He<em>_ doesn__'__t__ live__ by__ the__ rules__ that__ we__ live__ by,__ and__ he__ doesn__'__t__ care._

He leaned back hopelessly, then deleted what he had written, shutting down his laptop. _Stop__ embarrassing__ yourself,__ John._ He checked his phone for messages. Sherlock had his number programmed into his mobile, but John had forgotten to ask for his, which was probably a good thing. Still, he felt a prick of dejection when his cell displayed no new messages, no voice mails, no missed calls. Nothing.

Tomorrow was the day he came back, John mused dully as he got ready for bed. There would be no more of this mooning shit. He would be ready. 


	7. Chapter 7

_**Thanks for the reviews! Hope you enjoy this chapter :o)**_

The lady at the office gave Sherlock a frosty look when he asked for a pass. "You're not supposed to arrive late during class time," she informed him.

Sherlock bit back an _'__and__you__'__re__definitely__not__supposed__to__cavort__with__men__half__your__age__'__,_ but just barely. She had forgotten to wipe off the lipstick stains in the corners of her mouth. It was a positively garish shade of maroon which made clear why her husband no longer wished to take her to bed.

He imagined John Watson wearing lipstick and shuddered, though he wasn't sure whether it was from desire or distaste.

You'll be seeing him in less than a minute, Sherlock reminded himself, disgusted with his lack of control. The classroom was two hallways away, and he wondered with a weightlessness in his stomach how John's face would look when he saw Sherlock. He'd refused (not entirely successfully) to let himself speculate for the past 99 hours, and the long interval had been unpleasant.

Sherlock had a separate folder in his mind for John. He had made it out of necessity, of course, because the images and the fragments of him simply would not delete. It was infuriating.

Not to mention the fact that his libido had spun out of control after their night together. It was humiliating, especially as Mycroft had simply winked at him knowingly when he excused himself to use the toilet twice during one meal. Much like trying not to think specifically about elephants, attempting to forget the occurrence was impossible and frustrating. If he hadn't known John was the cause of his persistent erections, he would have suspected priapism.

But Sherlock Holmes did not _masturbate_ like some hormone-crazed pubescent _boy_, so there he was, half-hard from the friction of his trousers against his groin, or perhaps from the coil of anticipation wound tight in his abdomen.

Lestrade was waving his hands when Sherlock pushed open the door.

John's head swiveled towards him with the rest of the pupils, and Sherlock's throat was suddenly dry. The boy's eyes were much more blue then recorded (faulty retinal transmission), and were large and wide in his face.

Sherlock saw with a distant prick of worry that John seemed to deflate upon seeing him.

"Ah, Sherlock, glad you're with us," Lestrade said cheerily. "Take a seat."

Sherlock dropped the pass in his outstretched hand and lowered himself into his chair, noting from a distance that John's hand was gripping his thigh tightly. Sherlock blinked. He made himself turn his head.

It was a pity that John Watson made it so easy to read his emotions. He was undeniably tense (clenched teeth, carotid artery pulsing visibly in neck), and stared straight ahead with the concentration of a person who was looking at nothing.

Sherlock felt a strange twist in his stomach and scowled. He must have eaten breakfast too quickly. Good God, what could John have done to make himself so anxious?

"- and your poems are due Friday, all right? That's two more nights to work on it, and I don't want any excuses." Lestrade clapped his hands together. "Okay, get chatting, you lot."

Sherlock watched the column of John's throat move as he swallowed.

He smiled weakly as he turned to face Sherlock, but curiously, it didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock could hear his own heart thump inside his chest (common side effect of increased arousal), and frowned.

"What happened?"

John blinked and cleared his throat. "What do you mean?" he asked, and Sherlock felt a sudden flash of loathing at how careful his voice sounded, guarded, as if Sherlock was a bomb waiting to detonate. He recognized the tone, and it chafed at him.

"What's gotten you so upset?" Sherlock amended impatiently, examining John. _Ankles__locked__together,__fists__clenched,__evading__eye__contact._ He felt a stab of nausea.

"Nothing," John said finally, and looked down at a paper on his desk, which Sherlock must have missed receiving. "Er, let's do the questions."

Sherlock frowned. He had forgotten how irritating John could be. "Is it your Physics exam?" he asked reluctantly. He abhorred guessing; it was so _messy_.

"Um, yeah," John replied without looking up. His hand tightened on the table. "So, the topic is diet," he mused aloud. "How many desserts do you eat in a day?"

Sherlock scowled. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" John inquired politely, like they were acquaintances. He sounded, Sherlock realized, distant. Aloof.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," John said, fingers tapping idly on the desk. Sherlock wanted to still them forcibly with his own hand.

"Your respiratory rate is more than twenty breaths per minute, give or take, I can't see too well from this position. Your pulse -"

"Don't," John cut him off sharply, seeming almost panicked.

Sherlock leaned back, smug. "So now that we both know you're upset, why don't you stop all this blabbering and just tell me what it is?"

John stared at him for a long moment. He made a strange sound, and it took Sherlock a few seconds to realize that it was a laugh.

"You know what's funny?" John asked, voice flat.

Sherlock regarded him cautiously.

"That first day, you were so convinced that I was just pretending to be nice, that I wanted a good grade, and that's why I was sucking up to you."

Sherlock wasn't sure what point this was proving. "I fail to see the humor in that."

John rubbed his mouth, and when he spoke again, his voice was tighter, restrained. "It's pretty ironic, don't you think?"

"What is?"

John seemed to lose whatever force was propelling him along. He turned away again. "Look, okay, I'll tell Lestrade you were a great partner, all right?"

"What?" Sometimes Sherlock wondered if John's brain was built differently than others. It would explain why he managed to so often confound Sherlock with the nonsense he prattled on about.

John ignored him. "Was any of it true?" he asked casually, eyes scanning the paper. His voice was taut. "Just curious."

"Was any of what true? Dear God, at least try to make some _sense_, John." Frustration made Sherlock's voice sharper than he had intended.

John pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes flashing. "All right," he hissed, and Sherlock almost flinched. "All right," he repeated. "What do you want me to say? Sorry I don't like being used? Sorry I'm not okay with people lying to my face?"

"Who, exactly, has been using you?" Sherlock inquired.

John's eyes widened, and he sat back. "Christ," he said. "That's rich. That's really -" He stopped. "I just don't get it," he started again, and this time there was an edge of helpless confusion in his voice. "I wouldn't have cared about you and him, really. Why'd you lie?"

Sherlock blinked. "I never lied."

John snorted. "'John, er, I'd like you to know that I don't have much experience with sex,'" he mimicked Sherlock's baritone, then glared. "Well that was fucking bollocks, wasn't it? What, did you like to laugh at me, thinking I was so experienced? Did you like to watch me being all clumsy and making an idiot out of myself?" He fixed his eyes on Sherlock's. "It makes sense, actually. For you to get off on your own bloody superiority. Jesus."

Sherlock was frozen. "That was not a fabrication," he said at last.

John shook his head, looking tired again. "I know," he told Sherlock. "About Sebastian Wilkes."

Sherlock felt an ice cold hand grab hold of his internal organs. "Who told you?" he demanded.

John looked at him. "Sally Donovan," he said. "And Molly, too."

"What did she tell you?"

John sighed. "Look, does it matter? Does any of it? You don't actually like me, and I -" he broke off, gulping. "It wasn't anything important, so let's just forget it ever happened. I don't care," he finished defiantly, and turned his gaze down to the floor.

Sherlock was sure he was hearing the words, was processing them correctly, but all he seemed capable of thinking was _'__unexpected,__unexpected,__unexpected_.' He opened his mouth to speak automatically, then closed it a few moments later, realizing belatedly that he had nothing to say after all. John sunk down in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck, elbow hiding his face from view.

Sherlock sat back stiffly. His throat was uncomfortably dry once again, and he felt strangely empty, like his brain had erased its memory. His fingers twitched for a cigarette.

A few minutes later the end of class bell sounded, and Sherlock strode out of the room without looking back.

XXXXXX

Stupid - _stupid_. He should have known, really. Emotional attachment was unpredictable and illogical, though he supposed he now had interesting data for future study.

John Watson had turned out to be just the same, rendering Sherlock's initial prediction correct. It should have pleased him, should have given him that tiny spark of pleasure that came from being proven correct, but there was nothing.

Sherlock shifted on the couch, treasuring the rare silence around him. Perhaps it rankled him that John had been able to fool him for so long. He had truly appeared to be a genuinely good person, at least according to society's guidelines. Sherlock had never met someone as _considerate_ as John. His lip curled. He had forgotten that kindness was simply stupidity disguised as a virtue.

And in any case, Sherlock now knew what it was like for his funny little classmates to have friends. It supplied him with invaluable information for experiments down the line. The fact that John couldn't handle having Sherlock as a friend simply confirmed that Sherlock was superior to all of them.

He turned onto his side, pressed his face into the sofa cushion, and set about deleting every trace of John from his memory.

XXXXX

It was freezing the next day. Sherlock did not see John at all during the first part of the day, a simple observation that did not arise out of active interest or anything of the sort. He simply did not see John, and thought nothing more of it.

They came for him at lunch, Andrew Brenton and Christopher Ratley. Both on the rugby team, both of slightly less than average intelligence, both quite fond of violent physical activities that did not solely consist of sport. They had nursed a simmering hatred towards Sherlock ever since he inadvertently exposed them cheating on a history exam.

Sherlock ignored them until they stood directly in front of him. He lowered his book with a drawn-out sigh. "To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?"

Brenton bristled at the words, and Ratley put a calming hand on his shoulder. He turned his eyes on Sherlock's, not bothering to hide his dislike. "We came to teach you a lesson," he explained, fists clenching subconsciously.

Sherlock suppressed a snicker. "Ah, I see," he said, feigning a serious manner. "Please don't feel inferior when I say that I have no need of your vast knowledge."

Brenton gave a low snarl and reached for him, but Ratley hissed something in his ear and pulled on his shirtsleeve. "Get up," he ordered Sherlock, voice tight with fury.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Another school yard brawl. How utterly plebeian. He rose, however, and slipped off his overcoat, tucking his book within its folds. He faced them, rolling back into the fighting stance his body remembered from boxing lessons as a child. His father would have been proud that they were coming to such good use.

Brenton blinked at him for a second, his tiny, dull eyes confused. Ratley was quicker to recover, and started with a textbook right hook to Sherlock's nasal bone. He blocked it lazily, darting away.

"Faggot," Ratley shot out in frustration, anger making his eyes squint and his mouth pucker. He gave a little jerk of his head towards Brenton.

The boy grinned maliciously and grabbed Sherlock by the neck before he had time to react. He squeezed his meaty arm around Sherlock's throat like a python, and Sherlock floundered, gasping.

Then Brenton tired of choking him and hurled him to the ground. Sherlock hit the grass roughly, remembering to absorb the shock with his hands. He knew he had to get on his feet again, but it seemed unimportant as he gulped in air, reveling in the feeling of oxygen rushing to his brain.

Brenton kicked him hard in the side, and he flinched away, attempting to stand. His hands were bleeding.

"Let him up," Sherlock heard Ratley instruct the bigger boy.

They let him regain his balance before Brenton threw another punch at Sherlock. He tried to deflect it but the boy's fist had too much momentum, and his weak effort simply redirected its path towards his right eye. The pain was staggering, and Sherlock stumbled back.

"Yeah, that's right," Brenton jeered, teeth bared. "How's your boyfriend gonna like you now? Maybe I should break your fucking mouth so you can't go down on him no more."

Sherlock launched himself at Brenton, registering with a flare of satisfaction the flicker of fear in the boy's eyes. He drove a fist into his gut with all the force he could muster and felt a vicious pleasure when he heard Brenton groan in pain. When the cretin looked up (stupid, stupid) Sherlock punched him in the jaw, and he fell back, howling.

Ratley grabbed him from behind and tackled him to the ground, and Sherlock turned his face away and squirmed with all his might, attempting to dislodge him. Ratley drew back his fist and Sherlock prepared himself for the blow, but -

"_What the hell do you think you're doing?"_

Sherlock felt his blood run hot, then ice cold, feeling a rush of humiliation. _John__Watson,__his__savior,_he thought savagely.

John ran over swiftly (army training) and threw Ratley off with a violent shove. He stared down at Sherlock for a second, mouth open and eyes stormy, taking in the extent of the damage.

Sherlock imagined what he must look like, eye swelling, bruised, hands scraped and bleeding, shirt ripped in one place, hair covered in dirt and grass and most likely insects.

John gazed at him for a few more moments, expression unreadable. Anger? Disgust? Sherlock hated him, he _hated_him.

But when John held out a hand Sherlock took it, because if he hadn't it would have seemed like something had changed between them, and also that he _cared_. John grasped his hand gently and Sherlock was ashamed to find out that he couldn't pull himself up, even with help. John simply hooked an arm around his waist, calmly and efficiently, and planted him on his feet. His arm lingered for a second, warm and steady, while Sherlock regained his balance.

He did not frown when the arm returned to its owner's side.

Ratley had fled, and Sherlock was left studying the imprint his body had made on the grass with a stubborn set of his lips. John was silent beside him.

"You should go to the nurse."

Sherlock thinned his lips. "I am fine," he informed John stiffly. "I've had worse."

When John replied his voice had the same tightness as before. "You are not fine," he said doggedly. "You need to get yourself looked at."

Sherlock bit the inside of his mouth and turned his head. John had his arms crossed and was wearing a mulish expression. "I have no need of help," he answered, barely keeping his voice polite.

"Fine," John retorted, and Sherlock glanced at him, surprised. "But you should know that I'm not leaving until you do."

Sherlock scowled. "The nurse is out today," he told John hopefully.

"Yeah," John commiserated. "So I guess _I__'__ll_have to help you." He didn't look happy about it. Damn his motherly instincts - Sherlock wasn't some stray cat that needed protecting.

"That is wholly unnecessary," Sherlock spat, losing the battle to keep his tone level.

John raised an infuriating eyebrow. "Are you saying you have a problem with that?" he asked with a challenging stare, and just like that, Sherlock was caught. _Checkmate_. Admitting he did, in fact, have quite a monumental problem with close proximity to John would make it seem like he had been affected by their quarrel. That wouldn't do.

"Of course not," Sherlock countered smoothly, and John frowned.

"Okay," he said slowly, then straightened up. "Let's go. Loo's around the corner." He walked off at a brisk pace, and Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then strode after him. He ignored the twinge in his gut, attributing it to his battered ribs.


	8. Chapter 8

The lavatory was abominable, complete with dirty floors and scratched mirrors. Ironically, to seem as if they supported green energy use, the school had decided to install odious air flow machines instead of paper dispensers for drying one's hands. Deafening and impractical, Sherlock hated them. What he hated more, however, was the boy holding a wad of toilet paper in front of him, wetting it under a stream of water from the faucet.

He forced himself not to flinch when John took hold of his hand, and began to dab gently at his scraped knuckles. His hand tingled where their skin touched.

John didn't look at him as he continued to clean the cuts, eventually switching to the other hand. "So what was that about?" he asked finally.

Sherlock studied his face, carefully blank as he turned Sherlock's hand over to check for any spots of blood he might have missed. "Pardon?"

John's lips tightened. "You know."

"Yes, the fight." John leaned back and let go of Sherlock, watching him with those frustratingly unreadable eyes. "It was nothing."

"It was not nothing," John told him. His brow furrowed. "Actually, I should take a look at your ribs."

Sherlock jerked away when John put a hand to the hem of his shirt, untucking it gently from his trousers, then winced as he felt a flare of pain. John looked at him with concern. "You okay?"

"Yes."

John pulled his shirt up cautiously and ran a few fingers over his belly, leaving behind a trail of sizzling nerve endings. Sherlock cursed his epidermis.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," Sherlock answered truthfully. He was quite sure John could never hurt anyone.

"How about this?" John pressed down.

"A little."

"Well, I'm not a doctor," John started, letting go and stepping back. "But they seem just bruised."

Could have told you that five minutes ago, Sherlock thought childishly.

He straightened up. John was staring at him, and Sherlock's throat constricted. "No need to play the hero anymore," he said defiantly. "Shocking as it may be, I can manage well enough on my own."

"Didn't seem like it," John shot back. "In fact, I'd say that was you decidedly not managing."

Sherlock's face burned. "Don't be a fool," he said, and felt a stab of shame at the hurt in John's eyes.

John did not deserve to look so victimized, Sherlock decided, especially when _Sherlock_ was the one who had been ignored and tossed aside without even an explanation. "How unsurprising," he said.

"What do you mean?" John crossed his arms, frowning.

"Nothing," Sherlock responded nastily. "I was just realizing how thoroughly mediocre you are."

"Oh, is that what I am?" John asked. Sherlock tried not to shrink under the fire of his gaze. "Well, you're the genius, why don't you tell me why?"

Sighing, Sherlock wiped his hand on the front of his trousers. "You used your perception of me to support your hypothesis - namely, that I had been using you like I had done with Sebastian. Your judgment of me and the idea seemed to fit. You refused to consider any other version of what had occurred while you had the 'right' one ingrained in your mind. A predictably average reaction," he added disdainfully.

John had been listening silently as Sherlock ranted, jaw working. He opened his mouth to speak as soon as the taller boy finished. "You know what your problem is?"

"No, tell me," Sherlock said idly, considering his fingernails. "It's not as if fourteen psychiatrists haven't tried already. Don't let that discourage you."

John ignored him. "Your problem," he began heatedly, "is that you though you think society is the one wronging you, that they're the ones judging you without a second thought -"

Sherlock tried to interject something, but John held up a hand. "Let me finish. The truth is, though, that you're just as bad. You fucking think you know everything about a person, what they'll think and how they'll act, and you're the one who won't fucking consider any other option because you're so bloody certain that you've got the right idea."

"Finished?" Sherlock asked finally, swallowing hard and heart racing. He tried to sound blasé. "Because I have much more important things to do with my time than waste it listening to you blather on about -"

"Blather on?" John strode forward angrily so that their faces were barely a foot apart. "I'm blathering?"

"Almost definitely," Sherlock returned, attempting to sneer down at the other boy, discomfited by his nearness.

"Wait," John said suddenly, looking up at him in confusion. "Did you say 'the right one'?"

"What?" Sherlock was thrown by the question.

John waved his hands. "When you were talking! You know -" Sherlock saw him search his mind for the words - "You said that I 'wouldn't consider anything else when I thought I had the _right_ idea'?"

Sherlock simply stared at him, unwilling to admit that he didn't comprehend.

"As in," John continued, voice losing its hard edge and getting progressively more uncertain, "I thought Sally's version was the right one, but it..." He paused. "It wasn't?"

Sherlock looked at the ceiling, attempting to adopt a nonchalant tone. "Parts of it were most likely accurate," he allowed, and wondered where John was going with his line of questioning.

"So did you..."

"So I didn't have sex with him, no," Sherlock shot out. He hadn't meant to sound so irate.

John's eyes were like saucers. "Then why -"

"I didn't correct the rumor because no one would have listened," Sherlock said in a rush. "Please, John. When people hear what they wish to hear, it sticks in their minds like a disease."

Looking conflicted, John pursed his lips. "So what really happened, then?" he asked.

"Nothing important," Sherlock replied. The room smelled of urine, and he wrinkled his nose. "It was a trifle."

"Then it doesn't matter if you tell me," John challenged, crossing his arms once again and looking mutinous.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "We were friends, of a sort," he began casually. "He liked to watch me doing experiments and such. I didn't realize he had been telling people we were -" Sherlock shifted - "involved."

"But you didn't say anything."

"Yes, well, as I said, no one would have listened."

John licked his lips. "All right, sorry. Go on."

"He found out he was moving the month before the term ended. I assume he must have felt somewhat emboldened, and he..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "He made advances on me while we were in the library."

John looked horrified. "He did what?"

"He attempted to kiss me," Sherlock clarified uncomfortably. It had been quite unpleasant, and he had tried to delete the event from memory - but of course John's damnable curiosity had to resurrect it.

"And you..." John floundered. "You tried to stop him?"

"Eventually," Sherlock said. "I informed him that I was uninterested. He wasn't best pleased."

Seb had thought he was joking. Sherlock could picture his face, disbelieving, humiliated, and furious. He repressed a shudder.

John leaned closer to Sherlock, eyes searching. "Did he try to force you?" he asked softly. "Sherlock, tell me." There was a hint of steel in his voice that Sherlock had never heard before. "Did he hurt you?"

"N-no," Sherlock said, feeling like a butterfly pinned to a cork board under John's gaze.

("You want me," Seb shouted after Sherlock pushed him away. He tried to mash their mouths together once again. "You stupid freak, I'm your only fucking friend." His mouth tasted of sweat.)

"Sherlock."

He shivered. For some reason his normal eloquence had disappeared, and his brain stuttered. "He said..." The words came out as a whisper, but Sherlock hadn't meant them to. "He said I owed it to him."

John closed his eyes at the words, and Sherlock counted the eyelashes he saw from only a short distance away. Two, three, four...

"What happened?" John enunciated the words so they came out clear and precise, tense and controlled.

Sherlock blinked. "He tried to - to touch me," he explained. "And when he found out I wasn't - aroused, by his ministrations, he..." John's eyes had flecks of gold in them, how could Sherlock not have noticed? "He became angry."

"Did he hit you?" John asked tightly.

("Fuck you!" Seb slapped him, hard, and Sherlock's cheek felt like it was on fire. He put a hand to it, brain numb. "Fuck you," he screamed again, and shoved Sherlock. He staggered back.)

"It didn't hurt," Sherlock lied. "In any case, the librarian heard and disengaged us soon enough. She didn't see the altercation, but she surmised... well, he was encouraged not to return to school. I never heard from him again."

"Sherlock..." John's mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm so - I'm so fucking sorry."

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Because I was such a prick to you!" John backed away, hands grabbing at his hair. "God, why did I believe her?"

"I assume that her information was verified by a credible source," Sherlock said, unable to hide his confusion.

"Yeah, Molly." John rubbed at his forehead. "But still, I shouldn't have just - I should have asked you about it."

Sherlock bit back a malicious 'I told you so.' "Why didn't you?" he inquired coolly, as if he didn't care either way.

"I wasn't sure if I was getting things wrong!" John exclaimed. "You were so bloody hot and cold, what was I supposed to think?"

"I was not- " Sherlock scowled. "I was not 'hot and cold.' I invited you to my home," he added indignantly.

"And then you had a great big strop because I stayed over," John countered, taking a step forward.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "And then I kissed you," he replied in a superior tone. "Did you forget so soon? That doesn't speak well for my ability."

John took another step towards Sherlock, eyes not angry, as Sherlock expected them to be, but strangely amused. There was something in them that made Sherlock feel light-headed, something warm and nameless. "On the contrary," John said with the hint of a grin. "But you didn't seem to like what we did next," he continued uncertainly.

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes, well, I was surprised to have such a strong reaction. It was unsettling," he said.

John was in front of him, as close as he had been before. "I see," he breathed. Sherlock kept his eyes locked resolutely on John's, pointedly not straying to his lips.

"I apologize if I offended you," Sherlock began stiffly. "I had never experienced anything similar, so the correct social procedure was not clear - mmph!"

John was kissing him, fingers in his hair and mouth warm against his. His lips were dry and smooth and they continued, closed-mouthed kisses, until Sherlock slipped against the wall. He almost fell, dizzy and gasping, unsure whether his incapacitated state was due to the pain or the feel of John's lips on his.

John caught him around the waist, grinning infuriatingly. "Whoa there," he cautioned.

"Perhaps we should continue this in a more private location," Sherlock managed breathlessly.

"Perhaps," John agreed. "But I think this might be better." He pulled Sherlock into a stall, thankfully spotless since no one used this lavatory.

"Here?" Sherlock asked stupidly, heart pounding and mind dreadfully slow for some reason. "John -"

"We've already missed half of class," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, pressing him against the door to the stall. "Might as well stay here." Drawing back, John looked at Sherlock, bravado fading, replaced by uneasiness. "Er, if you want to, I mean," he amended. "We can go back, too. I don't mind. I just want -" he bit his lip - "to say sorry. I'm so sorry, I don't know what to say -"

"Shut up," Sherlock said, and tried clumsily to pull John's head back towards his, growling as his hands throbbed.

"Easy." John wrapped his arms around his neck so they flopped undisturbed. "There we go."

This time it was Sherlock who initiated the kiss, feeling smug when John made a surprised sound. He remembered something he wanted to try, and nipped carefully at the curve of John's lower lip.

John gasped against his mouth, opening unconsciously, and Sherlock thrust an inept tongue between his lips. The shorter boy smiled and adjusted, tilting Sherlock's head with a gentle hand and guiding him with his own tongue.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered when John moved to his neck. He arched a little when John sucked and bit at a sensitive spot beneath his ear. "I'm not - ah, as experienced as you."

"Now would be a good time to be quiet, Sherlock," John told him, hot breath in Sherlock's ear, and a strange warm-cold shiver ran through his body down to his toes.

"Make me," Sherlock breathed into John's ear, and he felt John chuckle into his throat and begin to kiss him in earnest, hands gripping his waist and holding him against the side of the stall. They started a little game of dominance, one that John eventually won when he sucked Sherlock's tongue in his mouth. Sherlock's knees buckled, legs wobbly and unsteady. "Oh," he bit out, and shifted, trying to gain purchase on the stall door.

The tiny movement locked their hips into place, and at the brush of John's thigh to his groin Sherlock inhaled sharply and rutted against it.

"Jesus," John said thickly. He stared at Sherlock with wide, blown out eyes. "You should see yourself."

Scowling, Sherlock gathered his courage and reached a teasing hand down to caress the side of John's hip. The boy jerked in surprise, leaning into the touch. "What - what are you doing?"

Sherlock ignored him and concentrated on tugging the hem of John's shirt out of his trousers. John watched his hands with a dumbfounded expression for a while, but when Sherlock slid a shaky hand up to his stomach, he stumbled back a bit.

"What are you doing?"

"You saw mine," Sherlock answered swiftly. "It's only fair that I have the same opportunity."

"You already did," John said, bemused. "Remember?"

"Didn't count." John's nipples, Sherlock saw with a curl of heat in his stomach, were rigid and dark in the cold. He brushed a finger over one in fascination, smirking at the sharp sound from John's mouth.

"Christ, Sherlock, it's bloody freezing," John chattered, batting his hands away.

"Very well," Sherlock conceded. "I won't take it off."

There was a clear bulge at the front of John's trousers, and Sherlock licked his lips without thinking. What if he...?

"Sh-Sherlock!" John squirmed away from his hand, face flushed despite the cold. "You can't just -"

"Fine," Sherlock said shortly, withdrawing his hand. John's erection had felt hard and curiously wet beneath his fingers.

"Look," John began, placing two arms on either side of Sherlock's head like he was a skittish animal. "We should take it slow, alright? Your hand is all cut up, anyway. You can't go around just..." he trailed off, swallowing. "Much as I might want you to," he added, with a rueful sigh.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, Doctor." He eyed John's lips again, which were turning blue in the cold, and wondered if he might warm them with his own.

But John was considering something entirely different, namely, Sherlock's erection straining through his trousers. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Maybe I can..." John muttered to himself, and Sherlock was suddenly unable to think as he cupped him though his pants.

"Ah," Sherlock panted, and pushed up. John smirked at him.

He found the head of Sherlock's cock and brushed a thumb against it, then massaged the length with deft fingers. The look on his face was nothing other than vindictive pleasure, Sherlock decided hysterically as he stifled a moan.

"Can I...?" John paused, hand poised over the button on Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock nodded after a moment, and John undid the button and then the zipper with unsteady hands. After a second's hesitation, he pulled Sherlock's cock out and fisted it.

Sherlock hissed out a long jumble of words.

"I've been," John started as he began to stroke, "thinking about this." His thumb swiped the head of Sherlock's cock again and Sherlock made a sharp noise. "For the past week. And then -" John squeezed his balls tentatively, which elicited another mass of snarled syllables from Sherlock - "you had the nerve to come back, looking bloody goddamn beautiful, and let me be..." his hand jerked a little, "a complete and utter idiot."

"That was n-not, ah, my fault," Sherlock managed, fighting the orgasm that rose in his stomach. He felt his balls tightening. "Y-you were being quite obstin - oh!"

John had looked up at him at the last word, navy eyes wide and glittering, and that was was stripped Sherlock of his last shred of self-control. He had one moment of sheer and utter panic, looking into John's eyes, and then he came.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, sagging bonelessly against the wall, John looked absolutely shocked. "Well," he said finally, and cleared his throat, hand covered in come. "That was..."

"An adolescent reaching climax," Sherlock said dully. He felt disgustingly vulnerable and open, and images of John barking 'I don't care!' clamored in his mind. He snatched some toilet paper and wiped himself off. Messy.

"You all right?"

"Me?" Sherlock zipped himself back up, lips pressed together firmly. "Oh, fine."

"Because you seem a little..." Sherlock saw John wring his hands together. "I don't know. Upset?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, ignoring the feeling of his underwear sticking damply to his cock. "I'm fine."

He could tell that John didn't believe him, but the boy managed a weak smile anyways. "Cool. So, do you want to come over to my place tonight?" he asked, scratching his head self-consciously.

Sherlock led the way out of the stall, pausing to peer at his reflection through the cracked mirrors. "That would be enjoyable," he threw out, purposefully not watching John's figure behind him in the glass.

"Good. We should work on our poems, too. They're due tomorrow."

Sherlock spun around. He had forgotten about the damned assignment. What would John write about him?

Didn't matter.

"Yes," he replied absently. John washed his hands in the sink, then turned back.

"Let's go, then?"

Sherlock watched the back of John's head as they strolled out of the lavatory, feeling a strange churning in his stomach. He would be nothing but honest in his own piece (leaving out, of course, the sexual exploits). Sherlock could be as truthful as he liked in his poem, because John was never, ever going to be able to read it.

But Sherlock was going to read John's poem. Privacy be damned, he would hack into his hard drive (it was laughably easy, he'd done it to Anderson many times) and read the thing.

Because John was a conundrum. A very elusive enigma, and Sherlock was going to unlock his every secret, his every mystery, for there was nothing he loved more than a challenge.

_And__your__feelings__for__the__boy?_ asked a snotty voice, the one akin to Mycroft's. _How__will__they__affect__the__process?_

_Piss__off,_ Sherlock told it pithily, and scowled because he didn't know the answer.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Er, so… John's poem (Spoilers!) is in this chapter. And, um, it was really hard for me to write. I don't know, it just was. Anyway, yeah. Enjoy! Getting to the end now!**

It was colder outside than John had realized, and his every puff of breath let out a long draft of frosty air. They'd missed the rest of school, and he couldn't quite feel as guilty as he ought to. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and turned to Sherlock, swallowing.

"Er, so, I'd love to have you over now..."

Sherlock looked at him, golden winter sunlight making his features seem alien. John squinted up.

"But we're Skyping with my dad after school. We do it every Thursday, so..." he trailed off.

"No matter." Sherlock peered into the distance, pulling up his coat collar against the wind. "Is seven o'clock convenient?"

"Yeah, that's great," John said quickly. "Uh. I should..." He really couldn't miss the bus again, and he didn't feel comfortable demanding another lift from Sherlock. He gestured towards the front of the school. "I'll see you at seven, I guess."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed noncommittally. He took a step towards his waiting black car, and then glanced back with a polite expression. "Goodbye."

John stared as he strode away, and from the subtle strut in his walk John wondered whether Sherlock knew he was watching. Either way, Sherlock didn't look back, and John had a strange feeling that he had done something dreadfully wrong.

**:::****  
><strong>  
>"Hello, my beautiful family," John's father's voice crackled out of their computer's speakers. His face was tan and leathery, and his teeth were a blinding white.<p>

"Hello," they chorused back, crowded around the laptop on the kitchen table. John's mum was the first to speak.

"How are you, darling?"

John could see a strip of yellow sand from a crack in his dad's olive green tent. "Good," Mr. Watson answered jovially. The conversation was always the same, even if everything wasn't good. "We had a bit of cake for Jack's birthday," he continued, smiling.

"Oh, how nice," his mother commented happily. She loved details like those. "Are you eating enough? How's the weather?"

"I'm eating enough for two," John's father reassured her. "And there's been nothing but sun. Very unusual," he said dryly.

John cracked a smile at that. He liked his dad's humor. He never seemed to lose it, no matter what happened.

"So how's school?" Mr. Watson continued. Another one of the usual questions. John heard someone bark an order in the background, and the wall of the tent flapped a little.

Harry had wrinkled her nose at the question, so John decided to jump in. "It's really good," he said, trying to sound truthful. Well, Sherlock was part of school, so it was sort of true.

"Glad to hear it, son." His father's grin widened, and he looked at Harry through the screen. "How about you, Harry? How are you getting on?"

"I'm all right, Dad," Harry told him with a wry smile. Her finger tapped the table. "Doing okay."

"Good, good." He grinned up at them. "Anything new to tell your old dad?"

"John has a new friend," Mrs. Watson jumped in, beaming. "He's a charming boy. What was his name again, John?"

"Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes and blushing.

"That's brilliant, John!" his father exclaimed. "Good to hear you're making friends. Which reminds me, Harry, how's Clara?"

"She's fine," Harry replied, smirking.

Mr. Watson traded looks with his wife through the computer screen. "I'm glad," he said, with a badly hidden smile.

"All right, all right, kids." John's mother picked up the laptop. "Your father and I are going to have a chat. Do your schoolwork, you can say goodbye later."

John eyed the wine as he walked over to the stairs. His mum became a sappy, weeping mess after each Skype session with his dad.

It was definitely not a good night to have Sherlock in his house.

When John plopped down in his desk chair, the clock showed a red 6:00. He decided to get started on his poem, and booted up his computer with trepidation, staring blankly at the screen.

Tentatively, he typed out 'Sherlock Holmes' as a title. Not very creative, but whatever.

Fifty minutes later, he had ten lines of absolute rubbish. It actually made him sound a bit like a creepy, obsessed stalker.

John leaned back and rubbed tiredly at his face. He was hopeless.

He barely eats, barely sleeps, and survives on puzzles and the darkness of life.  
>When I look at him, he seems like a closed-off tower, serious and uninviting.<br>And there's coldness in his eyes which comes from being alone.  
>And when I admire him, I can see him thaw a bit, and I can tell that he's surprised, even if he hides it.<br>He's amazing, like a firework on the backdrop of a black sky, brilliant and untouchable.  
>His mind works at the speed of sound, and every time I speak he's ten steps ahead, looking back.<br>But sometimes I say something unexpected, and he looks at me like I'm the interesting one.  
>It's like a strange compliment, and it makes me feel proud, even though I'm ordinary.<br>It seems like one day he'll destroy himself, alone and obsessed, and I want to take care of him, make sure that he doesn't.  
>He's like a one-man army, always fighting something or someone.<br>They call him a psychopath and a sociopath, but I don't think he's either.  
>He's extraordinary -<p>

Sighing, John left the document open so he could work on it later. He felt a rush of gratitude that Sherlock was never going to read his 'poem', if it could even be called that.

Didn't matter much, anyways. He was never going to be a writer, and Lestrade was the only one who would ever read the damn thing.

The doorbell rang at exactly seven o'clock, and John rushed downstairs before Harry or his mum could get to the door.

Sherlock was still wearing his school uniform, complete with large imposing coat. It was unfair how good he looked in it, probably tailored perfectly to fit his body. It was John's opinion that the fashion industry was biased towards tall people.

"Hey," he said lamely, hoping his smile wasn't too cheerful.

"Hello," Sherlock replied stiffly, hair mussed a bit from the wind, and cheeks red with cold. The sight of him sent a shiver of lust through John.

Fuck off, he told his body, trying to think about the squirrel his mum had run over the other day. Its innards had splayed disgustingly on the paved road, bloody and squished.

It seemed to work, and John stepped back to let Sherlock enter, catching a whiff of something strangely spicy as the taller boy strode past. Had Sherlock put on cologne?

The thought made John warm, and he felt a skip in his stomach. He'd never worn cologne before.

"So, er. My room okay?" John asked hesitantly. It was different, having Sherlock in his bedroom, now that they had done - stuff.

"Of course," Sherlock rumbled, slipping out of his coat. He looked at John expectantly.

John rolled his eyes and took it. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! It's wet!" He held the coat out at arm's length. "Thanks a lot."

"My apologies," was Sherlock's bored reply. "But you have noticed that it is snowing, haven't you? Of course the coat would be damp."

"Git," John muttered under his breath as he hung the coat up on a peg.

Sherlock was already at the top of the staircase when John returned, and he looked down impatiently as John clambered up the stairs.

The opening of John's bedroom door caused his laptop's screen to flare on, showing his poem. John crossed the room hurriedly and closed the lid, red-faced. "Just some work I was getting started on," he said, fidgeting.

Sherlock simply looked bored and glanced away, taking in the sight of John's room like he was greeting an uninteresting acquaintance.

"I've got some crisps," John said, sitting cross-legged at the top of his bed. He pulled the bag out of a drawer in his bedside table. "My mum doesn't like me to eat in my room, so I have to hide them," he explained.

Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, looking out-of-place against the mundane backdrop of John's house. John gestured to the end of his bed, the side not scattered with papers and textbooks. Sherlock sat gracefully, folding his legs into a pretzel shape like John's, and looking like an Indian guru.

"Did you bring any work?" John asked.

"The only assignment I need to complete is the poem," Sherlock told him with a frown. "May I borrow a sheet of paper?"

"Yeah, sure."

Sherlock used John's physics textbook as a prop, and began to scrawl steadily as soon as John ripped off a piece of notebook paper for him.

"Got all your ideas, then?" John asked casually, pretending to read a section of his Economics book.

"Seven, so far."

Startled, John looked up against his will. "Seven?" he repeated incredulously. "Are you serious? Does that mean seven different poems or seven things about me you're going to write about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes briefly. "Seven ideas, John," he said again.

"Right."

Five minutes later Sherlock was still writing. John had tried glancing at the page eight times, with no luck. Sherlock's long-fingered hand covered the top.

"Can I read it?" John ventured.

Sherlock looked up, seeming shocked. "Certainly not!" he exclaimed fiercely, and John blinked, because it wasn't that unreasonable a question, was it? He shoved down a little pang of hurt.

"All right, sorry," John mumbled. He looked back down. "Just wondered what was taking so long."

Sherlock clutched the paper to his chest. "I'm inspecting it," he shot back. "I need to make sure Lestrade will be able to comprehend it."

"Oh, of course," John replied sarcastically. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. "What'd you put the title as?" he asked curiously.

"'The Bravery of the Soldier'," Sherlock told him.

"I'm not a soldier," John said, confused.

"It's a _metaphor._"

"Okay. For what?"

"You. And a soldier," Sherlock clarified unhelpfully.

"Oh. What does that mean?" John asked, wary.

Sherlock sighed, like he was being so unimaginably _dull._ "You are the soldier. Even though you are not currently an actual soldier, your mannerisms and personality reflect that of one."

"How?"

Frowning, Sherlock leaned back a little, considering him. "You keep your thoughts locked up," he began. "Like an army man, you surrender your individuality for the cause."

"I don't keep my thoughts locked up," John said. "How -"

"Of course you do!" Sherlock said, catching his eyes and keeping them. "You have a mask of indifference that you show whenever confronted with emotion," he finished.

"Are you sure you're not mistaking me for you?" John asked, piqued. "You're the one who prances around like you don't have a care in the world!"

"That's because I don't care," Sherlock said smugly. He sat back, smirking. "That's the difference, John." Before he could reply, Sherlock added, "But who knows? Perhaps you are like me."

"What? You mean I don't care, too?" John knitted his eyebrows together.

"You said it yourself, John." Sherlock's eyes had dropped back down to his poem, and his tone turned sour. "Did you forget that as well? Dear God," he continued with an incredulous expression, "what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"When did I say I didn't care?" John demanded, staring at Sherlock.

His eyes snapped up and then flicked away, seeming oddly uncertain. When Sherlock spoke, however, his voice was bitter. "I believe those were your exact words. 'I don't care.'"

"What?" John tried to catch Sherlock's eye again. "Can I have some context, please?"

"If I remember correctly," Sherlock began, teeth clenched. "You were quite clear on the matter. You stated, 'it wasn't important' and in addition, 'I don't care.'"

Oh, shit. John remembered the conversation, remembered his stomach clenched tight at the sight of Sherlock sliding into the seat next to him, his voice raw and unwieldy. He remembered biting out the words with a sick sort of twist in his gut.

Bollocks. Was there any end to him being an arse? "Hey," he said, and Sherlock looked at him disdainfully. "No, wait. I didn't mean that in a -"

"Oh yes, you meant it in a nice way," Sherlock retorted, scowling. "Do forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced."

"I thought," John started to say, and then stopped for a moment. Sherlock watched him carefully, as much as he was attempting to seem indifferent. "I thought you'd understood."

"Understood what?" Sherlock inquired at length. He narrowed his eyes.

"That I - that I was being an idiot. Then. I didn't -" John paused, swallowing. He felt a slow burn in his stomach when he remembered Sebastian Wilkes. "I didn't have all the facts."

"You are referring to my experience with Sebastian," Sherlock said contemptuously. "Believe me when I say it was not important."

"No, believe me," John countered sharply. "It was. You were assaulted -"

"For God's sake, John, he attempted to kiss me twice and then he slapped me. It was hardly fatal!"

"No, but you're not considering other things!" John exclaimed, incensed.

Sherlock looked at him with disdain. "Oh, so presumably I was so affected by the event that I now suffer from crippling depression?" he asked. "I'm a sociopath, John. I don't have sentiments that impede mental function. Thank you for the diagnosis, Doctor Watson, but I think you ought to look into other fields of study."

Abruptly, John got off the bed and grabbed a old dictionary off his bookshelf. He sat back down and started to flip through it, turning the pages aggressively, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked above him. John could feel his eyes boring into his head.

He ignored him, turning the pages rapidly. M, P... S! Okay, Sabbath, Slant, Smorgasbord...

And there it was, nestled between sociology and sock. John stabbed a finger down on the word and read its definition in a tight voice.

"Sociopath. A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of moral responsibility and social conscience."

John looked up to see Sherlock sneer at him. "Is there a reason why you think I'm not familiar with the word's meaning?" he inquired.

"Um, yeah. You're wrong. You're not a sociopath. I'd say -" John ignored Sherlock's snort - "you're more of a socially-challenged egotistical genius. In my opinion."

"Would you mind enlightening me as to how I do not fit the definition of the word?" Sherlock persisted, refusing to take his eyes off John.

John's heated reply was cut short by his mum calling up the stairs. "John! Harry! Come say goodbye, please!"

"Damn," John muttered, and got off the bed, straightening his shirt. "Stay here," he told Sherlock firmly. The boy just rolled his eyes, looking rattled.

:::

"Bye, Dad," John said with an absent smile, mind still on Sherlock upstairs in his room.

"'Till next week," his father replied, beaming up at him through the laptop screen. "Miss you lot."

"We miss you too, Dad," John said honestly. He glanced up at his mum, who was dabbing at the corner of her eye. "Be careful," he added.

"Always am, son."

:::

John bounded up the stairs, preparing what he was going to say.

But he was shocked into forgetting when he opened the door. Sherlock was still seated on his bed in the same position as he'd left him, but his expression was weird. John stood in the doorway, blinking.

Sherlock's face was... what was that expression? Shocked, confused, a little scared? It was a little like his face when John kissed him, unwilling to believe what was happening, and a bit frightened by it.

John had been expecting a stubborn set of his lips, a deep frown - not that tiny crease between Sherlock's eyebrows that he got whenever he was upset.

Then (maybe Sherlock's crazy observations were rubbing off on him) John noticed that the down arrow button on his laptop's keyboard was down, as if someone had just pressed it so hard it hadn't had to time to rise again. it was an annoyingly common problem with the computer, one of the main reasons that John asked for a new one for his birthday.

Except since his mum had told him money was too tight, John had taken to staring at any key that didn't pop up, making sure it rose, and prying it back up with a pen if it didn't. He wanted to keep all the buttons working.

Sherlock cleared his throat, features turning blank as John started to put the pieces together. "Would you like to continue working?" he asked politely, and John imagined he could hear a nervous timbre.

"You," John began slowly, "read it."

"Read what, exactly?" He definitely wasn't imagining the guilty flash in Sherlock's eyes.

"My poem!" John marched forward angrily, embarrassment clawing at his insides. "That was private!"

Sherlock gazed up impassively, lips parted a little as John loomed over him furiously. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

John stabbed a finger at the computer. "You. Read. My. Poem," he stated in a low voice.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, face scrunching up into petulance. "So what if I did," he shot back, straightening up so that John had to step back.

"So what?" John asked in disbelief. He wanted to grab him by the lapels of his blazer and shake him. "It - it was mine! My private work, Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked rapidly, staring up at him. "Did you mean it?" he asked suddenly, eyes fixed challengingly on John's.

"Did I mean what?" John was scowling, feeling utterly humiliated.

"Did you -" Sherlock flailed an arm, looking irritated by the limits of the English language. "Did you mean what you wrote?" he finished, and gazed up defiantly.

There was something wrong with his face again. It was too - open, too vulnerable, and John licked his lips. "Yes," he gritted out. "Of course I did."

Sherlock's throat moved slightly as he swallowed. "It was," he began, seeming strangely unsure. "Very - kind."

"Not really," John replied, frowning. "What did I call you? Uninviting?"

He had shifted forward unconsciously so that his knees knocked the side of the bed directly in front of where Sherlock was sitting.

"Extraordinary," Sherlock corrected, eyes dropping to the front of John's trousers.

Do not get distracted, John warned himself.

"Well," he said, all of a sudden not certain what they were talking about. "Yes."

Sherlock's eyelashes fanned across his cheek like tiny hairs on a paintbrush. "Thank you," he said softly, so quiet John could barely make it out.

"No problem," John whispered back, eyes on the full curve of Sherlock's lower lip. It was pressed worryingly tight to its neighbour in a rigid line, and John wanted to soften his mouth with his own, kiss away that stiffness. He tore his eyes away. "So, now I should read yours," he tried.

"John -"

"Please," he said, trying to look earnest. Sherlock sighed and reached over, placing the paper in his hand with a careless motion. He scowled at the opposite wall as John read. 


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello and thanks to all my reviewers and 'favoriters', etc… It's been a while! Struggling with the last bits, so here's a short chapter and I'll update soon with the second part, which will probably be the end. Again, thank you all so very much! You make my day with your sweetness! Oh and my poems tend to be the not-rhyming kind, so yeah… Not a great poet :o)**

The Bravery of the Soldier

It is the fate of the soldier to protect, and so  
>he cannot pass the afflicted without giving aid.<p>

Thus, his sphere of influence extends too far,  
>and, overstretched, he is destined to fail.<p>

He cannot help them all, but he is forced  
>to feel each tear, each individual sorrow as his own,<br>until he loses himself in an abyss of despair.

But his bravery means that he perseveres in the fight,  
>even when it is hopeless, even when<br>he is uncertain what the cause is anymore.

The fate of the soldier is to give up his pride,  
>his individuality, for his cause.<p>

And so he is humble, modest, almost to a fault.  
>He thinks himself an ordinary foot-soldier,<br>merely one of the masses.

It is confounding that he cannot see how different he truly is,  
>how strangely unpredictable.<p>

He sees the best in each person, is kind to all,  
>making his companions feel unique, special.<p>

He is warm and surprising, and extraordinarily good.  
>He is truly exceptional.<p>

The last two lines were hurriedly crossed out with long, angry strokes.

John tried to swallow down the lump that had lodged itself in his throat, failing. How the hell could Sherlock write something like - like that, and then say he didn't care? He was brilliant, really, and John coughed, thinking about what to say.

"That was very good," he said slowly, wincing as his voice cracked. He watched Sherlock's knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. "Really, er, wow. Amazing."

There was no answer, and John looked up against his will. Sherlock was watching the wall behind John with a willful glare, lips pursed and posture rigid. John wanted nothing more than to push him flat on his back and fit their bodies together, and kiss him over and over, until that stiffness was replaced with something entirely new -

Instead he looked down again and blinked. "I really like it," he hedged uncertainly.

He had almost given up on a response when there was a cool, "Why?"

"Why do I like it?" John asked. Sherlock still did not deign to make eye contact.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered, and the word was sharp and impatient.

"Well." John wished Sherlock would look at him, he really did. "It's beautiful."

With a skeptical noise, Sherlock finally turned his eyes on John, jaw tight. "Really."

"Yeah," John replied indignantly. He took a tiny, doubtful step forward. "It is."

Sherlock didn't flinch away, and he held John's eyes, his own strangely bright. "Incomprehensible," he muttered finally. His hands gripped the side of the mattress, turning white.

John wasn't sure what he referring to. The world? The poem? "What is?" he asked softly.

"You!" Sherlock grabbed at his hair, tugging at it in a way that must have been painful.

"Hey," John said, alarmed, and snatched his hands, holding them tight in his own. "Don't get all worked up."

He hadn't let go of Sherlock's hands, and was grasping them far too tightly to be deemed normal, so he let go sheepishly. Sherlock was scowling.

John sat down cautiously on the bed, and gulped. He looked down at his hands in consternation, wondering if he was supposed to rub Sherlock's back or take his hand again.

He settled for an awkward shoulder pat, Sherlock's skin enticingly warm under the thin fabric of his shirt. "Er," he said, racking his brains. At least Sherlock hadn't moved away. "Why, exactly, can't you comprehend me?"

"You ought to be intimidated by me," Sherlock began, voice deceptively flat and absent of emotion. "You ought to resent me because I am superior. But you do not. Time and time again," here he broke off, turning his head away and looking out the window, "you display unusual - wisdom."

Speechless, John shook his head and tried for a joke. "You should tell that to my parents, they'll think you're mad," he said lightly.

He could imagine Sherlock rolling his eyes. "I would have assumed you only endured my eccentricities because you, ahem, desired me carnally," he continued, condescension dripping into his tone. John thought he could see a slight flush rise on Sherlock's neck. "Yet I know I am not - not sexually adept, so that was out of the question."

He said no more for a long moment, and John ventured hesitantly, "You're confused - because you don't know why I fancy you?"

Sherlock turned his head abruptly, fixating on John with a concentrated stare. "Yes." And then, softer, almost miserable, "Why?"

It was disarming, having him so close. John wished for a second that they could have discussions like this on iChat or Facebook or email, like normal couples. Couples? Was that what they were? He blinked and tried to clear his head. "Well. You read my, er, my poem. You're brilliant. And obviously, fit. And... Christ. Sometimes you say awful things, but it's always the truth, it's always what you think. You don't change yourself at all, not for anyone. You make life so much more, I dunno..." John struggled for a word. "Interesting. And yeah," he added, "you act like a kid sometimes." Sherlock bristled. "No, wait. You act like a complete - brat, one moment, and the next..." John remembered what Sherlock had said, that night about John's dad, "You're like some sort of sage."

Sherlock's eyes, so damn near to John's own, were wide and blue-grey and warmly familiar. "Hardly," he murmured, but the word was softer, and rounder.

Sensing that he'd done something right, John pressed on. "Er, yes. You observe everything, but you understand so much more of it than anyone else."

Sherlock's gaze kept dipping to John's mouth. Every few seconds, without fail, he'd glance down and let his eyes linger there for a short moment, looking up again soon after.

"What?"

The room was warm, and Sherlock was flushed. "You have - there is some chocolate in the corner of your mouth," he admitted, almost as if the very fact was a terrible secret. He shifted on the bed. "It's distracting."

Embarrassed, John swiped at the edge of his mouth, wondering whether it would be rude to suck on his finger. Sherlock handed him a tissue without a word, and John took it, feeling a small swoop in his stomach when their index fingers brushed.

He wiped the pad of his finger, almost flinching at the burn of Sherlock's gaze, and tucked the tissue into his pocket, all of the sudden feeling quite hot. Sherlock was staring at him, head slightly tilted, and John was struck with the memory of Sherlock saying something along the lines of 'head cocked to the side - an indication of her attraction to you...'

John gulped, too much of a coward to ask permission to kiss him. He let his eyes drift downwards, however, stopping at Sherlock's lips and staying there for a few long beats. Finally, heart pounding a rapid, steady rhythm inside his chest, John looked up again.

He couldn't, he just couldn't. Sherlock was breathing in deeply through his nose, chest rising and falling dramatically as if he was winded or just very, very nervous.

"Can I -" started John, and Sherlock swallowed, with none of his usual scorn, just a wave of impatience.

"I believe that question is rather unnecessary," he spit out, and for a wild second John couldn't quite understand what he was saying... what was he saying? And then Sherlock let out a growl and clamped his hand down (none too gently) onto John's wrist and dragged him forward. 


	11. Chapter 11

John barely had time to think before Sherlock's lips were on his, soft and insistent. He did that bloody thing again - biting at John's lower lip in a way that made him gasp and lose any ability to form rational thoughts. Sherlock's mouth was hot on his, tempting and so good that John almost started to wrap his arms around the taller boy's waist. He was frozen for a while, a little flabbergasted by the turn of events, until Sherlock made an annoyed sound.

"This would go unimaginably better if you were to respond," he hissed in John's ear, sounding irritated.

"Ah - alright," John managed, breath hitching as Sherlock bit his neck. His hands grasped Sherlock's shoulders like he was a life raft.

And then Sherlock's hands were tugging impatiently at the hem of John's shirt, brushing bare skin. John yelped and pushed him away, breathing heavily and unfairly turned-on.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, brows drawing together and red mouth puckering. It was all John could do to keep from jumping him right there.

"Because shouldn't we - I mean, we should talk about this!" There was a sudden, aching throb in John's head, and all he wanted to do was sleep forever and ever, lay under the down comforter on his bed and never wake up again. "We were just having a row! Why do you want to - go so fast, already?"

Sherlock pouted like a five-year-old. "Does my reasoning truly matter, John?" he asked scathingly. "I do, and that should be the only important thing on your mind. Really," he added, "Your unwillingness to indulge your vulgar urges is noble, but entirely unnecessary."

John gawked, trying to clear his head as Sherlock touched his own mouth absently and scowled down. "I'm just a little... confused, I suppose," he said cautiously. "I thought you were angry with me. Why the hell did you snog me? Not that I mind, of course, but..."

Still glaring, though with less intensity, Sherlock huffed out a noisy exhale. "I wanted to," he explained frostily. 'And I know you did as well - your pupils were dilated and besides that, you kept staring at my mouth like it was the ham on Christmas. Not too subtle."

"Well, okay. But you do know that I don't - I don't just -" John hunted desperately for a word.

"What?"

"I don't just want you for that," he rushed out, cheeks reddening. "For -" he gestured between them - "this."

"I'm afraid you're not being terribly clear," Sherlock said icily.

"Don't get me wrong, I do want... this." John struggled to find a reasonable response. Bloody hell, he could still feel the ghost of Sherlock's lips against his, and it was making thinking pretty goddamn difficult. "But you know I do care about you?" He winced, knowing that was possible the stupidest thing to say, and out of all the things he could have said, he chose _that__-_

"Care about me? How cliché," Sherlock sneered back. "Banalities don't become you, John."

And there they were, somehow stuck back in the old roles of confusion and disdain. How could he have gotten things so wrong?

"You know! I'm not just out to steal your - your virtue, or whatever!" John couldn't keep the frustration from edging into his tone. "I want something like a real relationship. And -" I'm not sure if you do, too, he thought gloomily.

Sherlock looked vulnerable for a tiny fraction of a second, and then he pressed his lips together, eyes flashing. "Why in God's name would you want something like that?" he inquired coldly, but John could hear the bewilderment trapped within the words.

"Because, you great prat," John enunciated slowly, "I like you. I fancy you. I thought that was clear." Fucking hell, underneath all that superiority Sherlock was really just a prick with an inferiority complex.

"So what are we? Boyfriends?"

"If you like. Doesn't matter to me."

"I fail to see how this changes anything," Sherlock said, frowning.

"Well, it doesn't, not really. That's what I've been trying to tell you." John gave him a hesitant smile, and felt heartened when the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up, just a tiny bit. John scooted up on the bed and grabbed one of Sherlock's hands in his. "Except when I do this -" he leaned forward and pressed a short kiss to Sherlock's lips - "It means a lot more."

"That isn't fair," Sherlock whispered, pouting again as John drew back. John smiled again, feeling unexpectedly buoyant and light. Maybe he'd done something sort of right after all. He basked in the moment.

"Would you like me to do it again?" he asked with mock innocence, hardly daring to believe his luck. Of all the possible scenarios that he had imagined for this, snogging didn't even begin to figure. Sherlock was the most unpredictable person John had ever met, freezing and chilly one moment and the next running as hot as fire.

Sherlock jumped at the contact, eyes going wide for an instant. "Idiot," he growled, and all but tackled John onto the mattress, straddling him with a quick movement.

John let out a sharp, surprised sound and gazed up as Sherlock studied him critically, eyes sweeping up and down and lingering on John's mouth and chest.

"Tease," John accused half-heartedly, and then whimpered as Sherlock shifted his hips.

"Pardon?"

"You're a sodding tease," John repeated, feeling heat twist in his abdomen. "Kiss me."

Sherlock had an infuriating look on his face, full of lofty pleasure and merciless intent. "Ask me nicely," he crooned, hands coming down to rest on the bed on either side of John's head.

Rolling his eyes, John complied. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

You're a prat, John thought. "Please, will you kiss me?"

Sherlock smiled then, looking satisfied. He leaned down and fit their mouths together with fury, cupping the sides of John's neck with cool fingers and pushing him deeper into the kiss.

**:::**

Somehow, through the blissful haze that was Sherlock's mouth on his, hours or minutes later, the door flung open. Harry poked her head in. "Johnny, Mum wants us to -"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, buggering hell. They were still on top of each other, Sherlock's long limbs entangled in John's. He lifted his head, unsuckering his lips from where they had been finding the most sensitive spot on John's throat, and glared at Harry like she was the the devil herself.

Harry stopped, eyes going as wide as golf balls. She simply gaped at them for a long moment, and John scrabbled to disengage himself, ignoring Sherlock's snarl of discontent.

"Could you maybe knock next time?" John shouted, and with that Harry's face broke out into a grin. Oh, hell. She started to laugh, hysterically, as John stumbled off the bed and tried to push her out of the room.

"And you said -" she hiccupped - "You said you weren't gay for him! Ha!"

John slammed the door in her face, knowing his cheeks were about as red as a tomato as he turned back to the bed. Sherlock lay stretched out on the covers, face set in a scowl. He turned his head as John flopped down, covering his face ashamedly.

"God," John mumbled into his hands. He peeked through his fingers to see Sherlock watching him with something strangely like fondness. 'Well," he continued sheepishly. "That was fun."

"Shall we continue?"

John looked at him with horror. "Of course not! My mum's probably in the next room, listening in. I want a fucking lock!" he added, raising his voice so Harry and his mum could hear from wherever they were eavesdropping.

Sherlock reached out and started fingering the fabric of John's shirt, playing with it lazily. His eyes were mischievous. "What shall we do, then? Given that we are now, officially, boyfriends?"

John giggled, looking back at him. "Well, we might go on a date," he ventured, expecting Sherlock to snort derisively.

Instead, he frowned. "A date?"

"Yeah," John replied. "You know, when two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

"That's exactly what we have been doing," Sherlock protested, narrowing his eyes. His face scrunched up like it did when he was having trouble fitting together the puzzle pieces of society.

"Come on, you really don't know what a date is?" John asked in disbelief. His mouth fell open when Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "You go someplace nice, like the cinema or a restaurant. With your - boyfriend, or girlfriend, or whoever."

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, obviously perplexed. John thought he looked adorable.

But Sherlock was never at a loss for long, and soon his eyes lit up dangerously. He sat up and whipped out his mobile phone, fingers speeding over the keys with reckless abandon.

"What are you doing?" John propped his head on his elbow.

"We have a date tonight," Sherlock answered vaguely, pressing a last button and lowering the phone with apparent satisfaction.

"We have a _what?_ Sherlock, it's a Thursday!"

Sherlock ignored him. "At eight-o'clock, so you better put on something -" he glanced at John's school uniform with disdain - "a bit more tasteful."

John struggled to his knees, mouth open wide in shock. "Where?" he asked stupidly, when the question he should be asking was _'__Why?__'_

"Angelo's. The owner owes me a favor, so there's no need to bring money." Sherlock frowned suddenly, seeming to realize something. "On these 'dates' - is it customary for the man to pay?" He looked so conflicted that John took pity on him.

"I'm sure it's fine if neither of us pay," he reassured Sherlock, "even though we're both blokes."

"Good." Sherlock nodded. His phone beeped briefly, and he scanned the message with a quick glance, expression pleased. "Everything is in order," he informed John, eyes glinting ominously.

Oh, bloody hell. "We're got to tell my mum that we're studying," John said, resigned. "Otherwise she'll never let us go."

"Of course." Sherlock paused, turning the phone over and over in his hand. He looked uncharacteristically nervous. "John -"

"Yeah?" Fuck, what had gotten him so upset? John frowned, wanting to smooth away the lines on his forehead.

"Thank you," Sherlock finished, voice stiff and awkward. He blinked slowly, eyes shuttered, and folded his lips together.

"What for?"

Sherlock glowered, his defenseless look disappearing. "Must you always be so contrary? It's considered polite to accept gratitude graciously."

John relented. He understood, and he hooked his fingers into Sherlock's hand so that they were intertwined. "All right. You're welcome."

And the way Sherlock looked at him then, John was almost positive he was falling in love.

END

**A/N: Finished at last! I just want to thank everyone who read this story, put it on alert, favorited it, and especially reviewed it. I love you all so very much. Shwatsonlock Forever :o)**


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